. ..  .  •••' 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC 


Balzac,  vol.  one — Frontis 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC 

IN        TWENTY-FIVE        VOLUMES 
{Etje  Jftrst  Complete  translation  into  (Bnglisfy 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Cat  and  Racket 

The  Sceaux  Ball 

The  Purse 

The  Vendetta 

Madame  Firmiani 

A  DAUGHTER   OF   EVE 

LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES 


Volume 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM  DRAWINGS  ON  THE  WOOD 
BY  FAMOUS  FRENCH  ARTISTS 


PETER  FENELON  COLLIER  &  SON 

MCM 


StacK 
Annex 


V, 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface 7 

Balzac's  Introduction II 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Cat  and   Racket 27 

The  Sceaux  Ball 87 

The  Purse 149 

The    Vendetta '. _ 183 

Madame   Firmiani 256 

Preface „ 281 

A  Daughter  of  Eve « - 285 

Letters  of  Two  Brides ~ 417 


A  T  THE  SIGN  OF  THE 
CAT  AND  RACKET 


PREFACE 

IN  THE  very  interesting  preface,  dated  July,  1842,  which 
Balzac  prefixed  to  the  first  collection  of  the  "Comedie  Hu- 
maine,"  he  endeavors,  naturally  enough,  to  represent  the  di- 
vision into  "Scenes  de  la  Vie  Parisienne, "  etc.,  as  a  rational 
and  reasoned  one.  Although  not  quite  arbitrary,  it  was  of 
coarse  to  a  great  extent  determined  by  considerations  which 
were  not  those  of  design;  and  we  did  not  require  the  positive 
testimony  which  we  find  in  the  Letters  to  tell  us  that  in  the 
author's  view,  as  well  as  in  our  own,  not  a  few  of  the  stories 
might  have  been  shifted  over  from  one  division  to  another, 
and  have  filled  their  place  just  as  well  in  the  other  as  in 
the  one. 

"La  Maison  du  Chat-qui-Pelote,"  however,  which  origi- 
nally bore  the  much  less  happy  title  of  "Gloire  et  Malheur, " 
was  a  "Scene  de  la  Vie  Privee"  from  the  first,  and  it  bears 
out  better  than  some  of  its  companions  its  author's  expressed 
intention  of  making  these  "scenes"  represent  youth,  whether 
Parisian  or  Provincial.  Few  of  Balzac's  stories  have  united 
the  general  suffrage  for  touching  grace  more  than  this;  and 
there  are  few  better  examples  of  his  minute  Dutch-painting 
than  the  opening  passages,  or  of  his  unconquerable  delight 
in  the  details  of  business  than  his  sketch  of  Monsieur  Guil- 
laume's  establishment  and  its  ways.  The  French  equivalent 
of  the  "Complete  Tradesman"  of  Defoe  lasted  much  longer 
than  his  English  counterpart;  but,  except  in  the  smaller 

(7) 


8  PREFACE 

provincial  towns,  he  is  said  to  be  uncommon  now.  As  for 
the  plot,  if  such  a  stately  name  can  be  given  to  so  delicate  a 
sketch,  it  is  of  course  open  to  downright  British  judgment 
to  pronounce  the  self-sacrifice  of  Lebas  more  ignoble  than 
touching,  the  conduct  of  Theodore  too  childish  to  deserve 
the  excuses  sometimes  possible  for  passionate  inconstancy, 
and  the  character  of  Augustine  angelically  idiotic.  This 
last  outrage,  if  it  were  committed,  would  indeed  only  be 
an  instance  of  the  irreconcilable  difference  which  almost  to 
the  present  day  divides  English  and  French  ideas  of  ideally 
perfect  girlhood,  and  of  that  state  of  womanhood  which  cor- 
responds thereto.  The  candeur  adorable  which  the  French- 
man adores  and  exhibits  in  the  girl;  the  uncompromising, 
though  mortal,  passion  of  the  woman ;  are  too  different  from 
any  ideal  that  we  have  entertained,  except  for  a  very  short 
period  in  the  eighteenth  century.  But  there  are  few  more 
pathetic  and  charming  impersonations  of  this  other  ideal 
than  Augustine  de  Sommervieux. 

All  the  stories  associated  with  "La  Maison  du  Chat-qui- 
Pelote,"  according  to  French  standards — all,  perhaps,  ac- 
cording to  all  but  the  very  strictest  and  oldest-fashioned  of 
English — are  perfectly  free  from  the  slightest  objection  on 
the  score  of  that  propriety  against  which  Balzac  has  an  amus- 
ing if  not  quite  exact  tirade  in  one  of  his  books.  And  this 
is  evidently  not  accidental,  for  the  preface  above  referred  to 
is  an  elaborate  attempt  to  rebut  the  charge  of  impropriety, 
and  to  show  that  the  author  could  draw  virtuous  as  well  as 
unvirtuous  characters.  But  they  are  not,  taking  them  as  a 
whole,  and  omitting  the  "Cat  and  Eacket"  itself,  quite  ex- 
amples of  putting  the  best  foot  foremost.  "Le  Bal  de 
Sceaux, "  with  its  satire  on  contempt  for  trade,  is  in  some 
ways  more  like  Balzac's  young  friend  and  pupil  Charles  de 


PREFACE  9 

Bernard  than  like  himself;  and  I  believe  it  attracted  English 
notice  pretty  early.  At  least  I  seem,  when  quite  a  boy,  and 
long  before  I  read  the  "Comedie  Humaine,"  to  have  seen  an 
English  version  or  paraphrase  of  it.  "La  Bourse,"  though 
agreeable,  is  a  little  slight;  and  "La  Vendetta"  might  have 
been  written  on  so  well  known  a  donnee  by  many  persons 
besides  Balzac.  It  happens,  moreover,  to  contrast  most  un- 
fortunately with  the  terrible  and  exquisite  perfection  of  Me*- 
rimee's  "Mateo  Falcone."  I  should  rank  "Madame  Firmiani" 
a  good  deal  higher  than  any  of  these  three,  though  it  too  is 
a  little  slight,  and  though  it  is  not  in  Balzac's  most  character- 
istic or  important  manner.  Rather,  perhaps,  does  it  remind 
us  of  the  "Physiologies"  and  the  other  social  "skits"  and 
sketches  which  he  was  writing  for  the  "Caricature"  and 
other  papers  at  the  time.  Still,  the  various  descriptions  of 
the  heroine  have  a  point  and  sparkle  which  are  almost  pe- 
culiar to  the  not  quite  mature  work  of  men  of  genius;  and 
the  actual  story  has  a  lightness  which,  perhaps,  would  have 
disappeared  if  Balzac  had  handled  it  at  greater  length. 

As  for  bibliography,  the  "Avant-Propos"  (of  which 
Momus  may  perhaps  say  that  it  is  both  a  little  too  discur- 
sive and  a  little  too  apologetic)  dates  itself.  I  do  not  know 
whether  there  may  be  any  interest  for  some  readers  in  the  fact 
that  it  originally  appeared  not  in  the  first,  but  in  the  last, 
"livraison"  of  the  first  volume  of  the  complete  edition  of 
the  "Comedie."  "La  Maison  du  Chat-qui-Pelote,"  under 
the  title  above  referred  to,  saw  the  light  first  with  other 
"Scenes  de  la  Vie  Privee"  in  1830:  but  it  was  not  dated  as 
of  the  previous  year  till  five  years  later,  in  its  third  edition; 
while  the  title  was  not  changed  till  the  great  collection  itself. 
Of  its  companions,  "Le  Bal  de  Sceaux"  was  an  original  one, 
and  seems  to  have  been  written  as  well  as  published  more  or 


10  PREFACE 

less  at  the  same  time.  It  at  first  had  an  alternative  title, 
"Ou  le  Pair  de  France,"  which  was  afterward  dropped. 

"La  Bourse"  was  early,  but  not  quite  so  early  as  these. 
It  appeared  in,  and  was  apparently  written  for,  the  second 
edition  of  the  "Scenes  de  la  Vie  Privee,"  published  in  May, 
1832.  In  1835  it  was  moved  over  to  the  "Scenes  de  la  Vie 
Parisienne,"  between  which  and  the  "Vie  PriveV'  there  is 
in  fact  a  good  deal  of  cross  and  arbitrary  division.  But 
when  the  full  "Comedie"  took  shape  it  moved  back  again. 

"La  Vendetta"  ranked  from  the  first  edition  of  these 
"Scenes"  with  them;  but,  unlike  those  previously  men- 
tioned, it  had  had  an  earlier  separate  publication  in  part. 
For  it  is  one  of  those  stories  which  Balzac  originally  divided 
into  chapters  and  afterward  printed  without  them.  The  first 
of  these,  which  appeared  in  the  "Silhouette"  of  April,  1830, 
was  entitled  "L' Atelier,"  and  the  others  were  "La  Desobeis- 
sance,"  "Le  Mariage,"  and  "Le  Chatiment." 

"Madame  Firmiani"  was  first  published  in  the  "Eevue 
de  Paris"  for  February,  1832;  then  became  a  "Conte  Philoso- 
phique,"  and  still  in  the  same  year  a  "Sc&ne  de  la  Vie  Pari- 
sienne. ' '  It  was  in  the  1842  collection  that  it  took  up  its 
abode  in  the  "Scenes  de  la  Vie  Privee." 


INTRODUCTION 

IN  GIVING  the  general  title  of  "The  Human  Comedy" 
to  a  work  begun  nearly  thirteen  years  since,  it  is  necessary 
to  explain  its  motive,  to  relate  its  origin,  and  briefly  sketch 
its  plan,  while  endeavoring  to  speak  of  these  matters  as 
though  I  had  no  personal  interest  in  them.  This  is  not  so 
difficult  as  the  public  might  imagine.  Few  works  conduce 
to  much  vanity;  much  labor  conduces  to  great  diffidence. 
This  observation  accounts  for  the  study  of  their  own  works 
made  by  Corneille,  Moliere,  and  other  great  writers ;  if  it  is 
impossible  to  equal  them  in  their  fine  conceptions,  we  may 
try  to  imitate  them  in  this  feeling. 

The  idea  of  "The  Human  Comedy"  was  at  first  as  a  dream 
to  me,  one  of  those  impossible  projects  which  we  caress  and 
then  let  fly;  a  chimera  that  gives  us  a  glimpse  of  its  smiling 
woman's  face,  and  forthwith  spreads  its  wings  and  returns 
to  a  heavenly  realm  of  fantasy.  But  this  chimera,  like 
many  another,  has  become  a  reality;  has  its  behests,  its 
tyranny,  which  must  be  obeyed. 

The  idea  originated  in  a  comparison  between  Humanity 
and  Anirnality. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  great  dispute  which 
has  lately  made  a  stir,  between  Cuvier  and  Geoffroi  Saint- 
Hilaire,  arose  from  a  scientific  innovation.  Unity  of  struct- 
ure, under  other  names,  had  occupied  the  greatest  minds 
during  the  two  previous  centuries.  As  we  read  the  ex- 
traordinary writings  of  the  mystics  who  studied  the  sciences 
in  their  relation  to  infinity,  such  as  Swedenborg,  Saint-Mar- 
tin, and  others,  and  the  works  of  the  greatest  authors  on 

(11) 


12  INTRODUCTION 

Natural  History — Leibnitz,  Buffon,  Charles  Bonnet,  etc. — 
we  detect  in  the  monads  of  Leibnitz,  in  the  organic  molecules 
of  Buffon,  in  the  vegetative  force  of  Needham,  in  the  correla- 
tion of  similar  organs  of  Charles  Bonnet — who  in  1760  was 
so  bold  as  to  write,  "Animals  vegetate  as  plants  do" — we 
detect,  I  say,  the  rudiments  of  the  great  law  of  Self  for  Self, 
which  lies  at  the  root  of  "Unity  of  Plan."  There  is  but  one 
Animal.  The  Creator  works  on  a  single  model  for  every 
organized  being.  "The  Animal"  is  elementary,  and  takes 
its  external  form,  or,  to  be  accurate,  the  differences  in  its 
form,  from  the  environment  in  which  it  is  obliged  to  de- 
velop. Zoological  species  are  the  result  of  these  differences. 
The  announcement  and  defence  of  this  system,  which  is  in- 
deed in  harmony  with  our  preconceived  ideas  of  Divine 
Power,  will  be  the  eternal  glory  of  Geoffroi  Saint-Hilaire, 
Cuvier's  victorious  opponent  on  this  point  of  higher  science, 
whose  triumph  was  hailed  by  Goethe  in  the.  last  article  he 
wrote. 

I,  for  my  part,  convinced  of  this  scheme  of  nature  long 
before  the  discussion  to  which  it  has  given  rise,  perceived 
that  in  this  respect  society  resembled  nature.  For  does  not 
society  modify  Man,  according  to  the  conditions  in  which  he 
lives  and  acts,  into  men  as  manifold  as  the  species  in  Zoology  ? 
The  differences  between  a  soldier,  an  artisan,  a  man  of  busi- 
ness, a  lawyer,  an  idler,  a  student,  a  statesman,  a  merchant, 
a  sailor,  a  poet,  a  beggar,  a  priest,  are  as  great,  though  not 
so  easy  to  define,  as  those  between  the  wolf,  the  lion,  the 
ass,  the  crow,  the  shark,  the  seal,  the  sheep,  etc.  Thus 
social  species  have  always  existed,  and  will  always  exist, 
just  as  there  are  zoological  species.  Jf  Buffon  could  pro- 
duce a  magnificent  work  by  attempting  to  represent  in  a 
book  the  whole  realm  of  zoology,  was  there  not  room  for 
a  work  of  the  same  kind  on  society?  But  the  limits  set  by 
nature  to  the  variations  of  animals  have  no  existence  in 
society.  When  Buffon  describes  the  lion,  he  dismisses  the 
lioness  with  a  few  phrases;  but  in  society  a  wife  is  not  al- 
ways the  female  of  the  male.  There  may  be  two  perfectly 


INTRODUCTION  13 

dissimilar  beings  in  one  household.  The  wife  of  a  shop- 
keeper is  sometimes  worthy  of  a  prince,  and  the  wife  of  a 
prince  is  often  worthless  compared  with  the  wife  of  an  ar- 
tisan. The  social  state  has  freaks  which  Nature  does  not 
allow  herself;  it  is  nature  plus  society.  The  description 
of  social  species  would  thus  be  at  least  double  that  of  ani- 
mal species,  merely  in  view  of  the  two  sexes.  Then,  among 
animals  the  drama  is  limited;  there  is  scarcely  any  confu- 
sion: they  turn  and  rend  each  other — that  is  all.  Men,  too, 
rend  each  other;  but  their  greater  or  less  intelligence  makes 
the  struggle  far  more  complicated.  Though  some  savants  do 
not  yet  admit  that  the  animal  nature  flows  into  human  nature 
through  an  immense  tide  of  life,  the  grocer  certainly  becomes 
a  peer,  and  the  noble  sometimes  sinks  to  the  lowest  social 
grade.  Again,  Buff  on  found  that  life  was  extremely  simple 
among  animals.  Animals  have  little  property,  and  neither 
arts  nor  sciences ;  while  man,  by  a  law  that  has  yet  to  be 
sought,  has  a  tendency  to  express  his  culture,  his  thoughts, 
and  his  life  in  everything  he  appropriates  to  his  use.  Though 
Leuwenhoek,  Swammerdam,  Spallanzani,  Reaumur,  Charles 
Bonnet,  Muller,  Haller,  and  other  patient  investigators  have 
shown  us  how  interesting  are  the  habits  of  Animals,  those  of 
each  kind  are,  at  least  to  our  eyes,  always  and  in  every  age 
alike;  whereas  the  dress,  the  manners,  the  speech,  the  dwell- 
ing of  a  prince,  a  banker,  an  artist,  a  citizen,  a  priest,  and  a 
pauper  are  absolutely  unlike,  and  change  with  every  phase 
of  civilization. 

Hence  the  work  to  be  written  needed  a  threefold  form 
— men,  women,  and  things;  that  is  to  say,  persons  and  the 
material  expression  of  their  minds;  man,  in  short,  and  life. 

As  we  read  the  dry  and  discouraging  list  of  events  called 
History,  who  can  have  failed  to  note  that  the  writers  of  all 
periods,  in  Egypt,  Persia,  Greece,  and  Eome,  have  forgotten 
to  give  us  the  history  of  manners  ?  The  fragment  of  Petro- 
nius  on  the  private  life  of  the  Eomans  excites  rather  than 
satisfies  our  curiosity.  It  was  from  observing  this  great 
void  in  the  field  of  history  that  the  Abbe  Barthe'lemy  de- 


14  INTRODUCTION 

voted  his  life  to  a  reconstruction  of  Greek  manners  in  "Le 
Jeune  Anacharsis." 

But  how  could  such  a  drama,  with  the  four  or  five  thou- 
sand persons  which  a  society  offers,  be  made  interesting  ? 
How,  at  the  same  time,  please  the  poet,  the  philosopher,  and 
the  masses  who  want  both  poetry  and  philosophy  under  strik- 
ing imagery?  Though  I  could  conceive  of  the  importance 
and  of  the  poetry  of  such  a  history  of  the  human  heart,  I  saw 
no  way  of  writing  it;  for  hitherto  the  most  famous  story- 
tellers had  spent  their  talent  in  creating  two  or  three  typical 
actors,  in  depicting  one  aspect  of  life.  It  was  with  this  idea 
that  I  read  the  works  of  Walter  Scott.  Walter  Scott,  the 
modern  troubadour,  or  finder  (trouv&re=trouveur},  had  just 
then  given  an  aspect  of  grandeur  to  a  class  of  composition 
unjustly  regarded  as  of  the  second  rank.  Is  it  not  really 
more  difficult  to  compete  with  personal  and  parochial  inter- 
ests by  writing  of  Daphnis  and  Chloe,  Koland,  Amadis, 
Panurge,  Don  Quixote,  Manon  Lescaut,  Clarissa,  Lovelace, 
Robinson  Crusoe,  Gil  Bias,  Ossian,  Julie  d'Etanges,  My 
Uncle  Toby,  Werther,  Corinne,  Adolphe,  Paul  and  Vir- 
ginia, Jeanie  Deans,  Claverhouse,  Ivanhoe,  Mignon,  Man- 
fred, than  to  set  forth  in  order  facts  more  or  less  similar 
in  every  country,  to  investigate  the  spirit  of  laws  that  have 
fallen  into  desuetude,  to  review  the  theories  which  mislead 
nations,  or,  like  some  metaphysicians,  to  explain  what  Is? 
In  the  first  place,  these  actors,  whose  existence  becomes 
more  prolonged  and  more  authentic  than  that  of  the  genera- 
tions which  saw  their  birth,  almost  always  live  solely  on 
condition  of  their  being  a  vast  reflection  of  the  present. 
Conceived  in  the  womb  of  their  own  period,  the  whole  heart 
of  humanity  stirs  within  their  frame,  which  often  covers  a 
complete  system  of  philosophy.  Thus  Walter  Scott  raised 
to  the  dignity  of  the  philosophy  of  History  the  literature 
which,  from  age  to  age,  sets  perennial  gems  in  the  poetic 
crown  of  every  nation  where  letters  are  cultivated.  He  vivi- 
fied it  with  the  spirit  of  the  past;  he  combined  drama,  dia- 
logue, portrait,  scenery,  and  description;  he  fused  the  mar- 


INTRODUCTION  15 

vellous  with  truth — the  two  elements  of  the  times;  and  he 
brought  poetry  into  close  contact  with  the  familiarity  of  the 
humblest  speech.  But  as  he  had  not  so  much  devised  a 
system  as  hit  upon  a  manner  in  the  ardor  of  his  work,  or  as 
its  logical  outcome,  he  never  thought  of  connecting  his  com- 
positions in  such  a  way  as  to  form  a  complete  history  of 
which  each  chapter  was  a  novel,  and  each  novel  the  picture 
of  a  period. 

It  was  by  discerning  this  lack  of  unity,  which  in  no  way 
detracts  from  the  Scottish  writer's  greatness,  that  I  perceived 
at  once  the  scheme  which  would  favor  the  execution  of  my 
purpose,  and  the  possibility  of  executing  it.  Though  daz- 
zled, so  to  speak,  by  Walter  Scott's  amazing  fertility,  always 
himself  and  always  original,  I  did  not  despair,  for  I  found 
the  source  of  his  genius  in  the  infinite  variety  of  human 
nature.  Chance  is  the  greatest  romancer  in  the  world ;  we 
have  only  to  study  it.  French  society  would  be  the  real 
author;  I  should  only  be  the  secretary.  By  drawing  up 
an  inventory  of  vices  and  virtues,  by  collecting  the  chief 
facts  of  the  passions,  by  depicting  characters,  by  choosing 
the  principal  incidents  of  social  life,  by  composing  types  out 
of  a  combination  of  homogeneous  characteristics,  I  might 
perhaps  succeed  in  writing  the  history  which  so  many  his- 
torians have  neglected:  that  of  Manners.  By  patience  and 
perseverance  1  might  produce  for  France  in  the  nineteenth 
century  the  book  which  we  must  all  regret  that  Rome,  Ath- 
ens, Tyre,  Memphis,  Persia,  and  India  have  not  bequeathed 
to  us;  that  history  of  their  social  life  which,  prompted  by  the 
Abbe"  Barthelerny,  Monteil  patiently  and  steadily  tried  to 
write  for  the  Middle  Ages,  but  in  an  unattractive  form. 

The  work,  so  far,  was  nothing.  By  adhering  to  the  strict 
lines  of  a  reproduction  a  writer  might  be  a  more  or  less  faith- 
ful, and  more  or  less  successful,  painter  of  types  of  humanity, 
a  narrator  of  the  dramas  of  private  life,  an  archa3ologist  of 
social  furniture,  a  cataloguer  of  professions,  a  registrar 
of  good  and  evil;  but  to  deserve  the  praise  of  which  every 
artist  must  be  ambitious,  must  I  not  also  investigate  the 


16  INTRODUCTION 

reasons  or  the  cause  of  these  social  effects,  detect  the  hidden 
sense  of  this  vast  assembly  of  figures,  passions,  and  inci- 
dents? And  finally,  having  sought — I  will  not  say  having 
found — this  reason,  this  motive  power,  must  I  not  reflect 
on  first  principles,  and  discover  in  what  particulars  societies 
approach  or  deviate  from  the  eternal  law  of  truth  and  beauty  ? 
In  spite  of  the  wide  scope  of  the  preliminaries,  which  might 
of  themselves  constitute  a  book,  the  work,  to  be  complete, 
would  need  a  conclusion.  Thus  depicted,  society  ought  to 
bear  in  itself  the  reason  of  its  working. 

The  law  of  the  writer,  in  virtue  of  which  he  is  a  writer, 
and  which  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  makes  him  the  equal,  or 
perhaps  the  superior,  of  the  statesman,  is  his  judgment,  what- 
ever it  may  be,  on  human  affairs,  and  his  absolute  devotion 
to  certain  principles.  Machiavelli,  Hobbes,  Bossuet,  Leib- 
nitz, Kant,  Montesquieu  are  the  science  which  statesmen 
apply.  "A  writer  ought  to  have  settled  opinions  on  morals 
and  politics;  he  should  regard  himself  as  a  tutor  of  men;  for 
men  need  no  masters  to  teach  them  to  doubt, ' '  says  Bonald. 
I  took  these  noble  words  as  my  guide  long  ago ;  they  are  the 
written  law  of  the  monarchical  writer.  And  those  who  would 
confute  me  by  my  own  words  will  find  that  they  have  mis- 
interpreted some  ironical  phrase,  or  that  they  have  turned 
against  me  a  speech  given  to  one  of  my  actors — a  trick  pecu- 
liar to  calumniators. 

As  to  the  intimate  purpose,  the  soul  of  this  work,  these 
are  the  principles  on  which  it  is  based. 

Man  is  neither  good  nor  bad;  he  is  born  with  instincts 
and  capabilities;  society,  far  from  depraving  him,  as  Eous- 
seau  asserts,  improves  him,  makes  him  better;  but  self- 
interest  also  develops  his  evil  tendencies.  Christianity, 
above  all,  Catholicism,  being — as  I  have  pointed  out  in  the 
"Country  Doctor"  ("le  Medecin  de  Campagne") — a  complete 
system  for  the  repression  of  the  depraved  tendencies  of  man, 
is  the  most  powerful  element  of  social  order. 

In  reading  attentively  the  presentment  of  society  cast,  as 
it  were,  from  the  life,  with,  all  that  is  good  and  all  that  is  bad 


INTRODUCTION  17 

in  it,  we  learn  this  lesson — if  thought,  or  if  passion,  which 
combines  thought  and  feeling,  is  the  vital  social  element, 
it  is  also  its  destructive  element.  In  this  respect  social  life 
is  like  the  life  of  man.  Nations  live  long  only  by  moderat- 
ing their  vital  energy.  Teaching,  or  rather  education,  by 
religious  bodies  is  the  grand  principle  of  life  for  nations,  the 
only  means  for  diminishing  the  sum  of  evil  and  increasing 
the  sum  of  good  in  all  society.  Thought,  the  living  prin- 
ciple of  good  and  ill,  can  only  be  trained,  quelled,  and 
guided  by  religion.  The  only  possible  religion  is  Chris- 
tianity (see  the  letter  from  Paris  in  "Louis  Lambert,"  in 
which  the  young  mystic  explains,  d  propos  to  Swedenborg's 
doctrines,  how  there  has  never  been  but  one  religion  since 
the  world  began).  Christianity  created  modern  nationalities, 
and  it  will  preserve  them.  Hence,  no  doubt,  the  necessity 
for  the  monarchical  principle.  Catholicism  and  Royalty  are 
twin  principles. 

As  to  the  limits  within  which  these  two  principles  should 
be  confined  by  various  institutions,  so  that  they  may  not 
become  absolute,  every  one  will  feel  that  a  brief  preface 
ought  not  to  be  a  political  treatise.  I  cannot,  therefore, 
enter  on  religious  discussions,  nor  on  the  political  discus- 
sions of  the  day.  I  write  under  the  light  of  two  eternal 
truths — Religion  and  Monarchy;  two  necessities,  as  they  are 
shown  to  be  by  contemporary  events,  toward  which  every 
writer  of  sound  sense  ought  to  try  to  guide  the  country  back. 
Without  being  an  enemy  to  election,  which  is  an  excellent 
principle  as  a  basis  of  legislation,  I  reject  election  regarded 
as  the  only  social  instrument,  especially  so  badly  organized  as 
it  now  is  (1842);  for  it  fails  to  represent  imposing  minorities, 
whose  ideas  and  interests  would  occupy  the  attention  of  a 
monarchical  government.  Elective  power  extended  to  all 
gives  us  government  by  the  masses,  the  only  irresponsible 
form  of  government,  under  which  tyranny  is  unlimited,  for 
it  calls  itself  law.  Besides,  I  regard  the  family  and  not  the 
individual  as  the  true  social  unit.  In  this  respect,  at  the  risk 
of  being  thought  retrograde,  I  side  with  Bossuet  and  Bonald 


18  INTRODUCTION 

instead  of  going  with  modern  innovators.  Since  election  has 
become  the  only  social  instrument,  if  I  myself  were  to  exer- 
cise it  no  contradiction  between  my  acts  and  my  words  should 
be  inferred.  An  engineer  points  out  that  a  bridge  is  about 
to  fall,  that  it  is  dangerous  for  any  one  to  cross  it;  but  he 
crosses  it  himself  when  it  is  the  only  road  to  the  town. 
Napoleon  adapted  election  to  the  spirit  of  the  French  nation 
with  wonderful  skill.  The  least  important  members  of  his 
Legislative  Body  became  the  most  famous  orators  of  the 
Chamber  after  the  Restoration.  No  Chamber  has  ever  been 
the  equal  of  the  Corps  Legislatif,  comparing  them  man  for 
man.  The  elective  system  of  the  Empire  was,  then,  indis- 
putably the  best. 

Some  persons  may,  perhaps,  think  that  this  declaration 
is  somewhat  autocratic  and  self-assertive.  They  will  quarrel 
with  the  novelist  for  wanting  to  be  a  historian,  and  will  call 
him  to  account  for  writing  politics.  I  am  simply  fulfilling 
an  obligation — that  is  my  reply.  The  work  I  have  under- 
taken will  be  as  long  as  a  history ;  I  was  compelled  to  explain 
the  logic  of  it,  hitherto  unrevealed,  and  its  principles  and 
moral  purpose. 

Having  been  obliged  to  withdraw  the  prefaces  formerly 
published,  in  response  to  essentially  ephemeral  criticisms, 
I  will  retain  only  one  remark. 

Writers  who  have  a  purpose  in  view,  were  it  only  a  rever- 
sion to  principles  familiar  in  the  past  because  they  are  eternal, 
should  always  clear  the  ground.  Now  every  one  who,  in  the 
domain  of  ideas,  brings  his  stone  by  pointing  out  an  abuse, 
or  setting  a  mark  on  some  evil  that  it  may  be  removed — every 
such  man  is  stigmatized  as  immoral.  The  accusation  of  im- 
morality, which  has  never  failed  to  be  cast  at  the  courageous 
writer,  is,  after  all,  the  last  that  can  be  brought  when  noth- 
ing else  remains  to  be  said  to  a  romancer.  If  you  are  truth- 
ful in  your  pictures;  if  by  dint  of  daily  and  nightly  toil  you 
succeed  in  writing  the  most  difficult  language  in  the  world, 
the  word  immoral  is  flung  in  your  teeth.  Socrates  was  im- 
moral; Jesus  Christ  was  immoral;  they  both  were  persecuted 


INTRODUCTION  .  19 

in  the  name  of  the  society  they  overset  or  reformed.  When 
a  man  is  to  be  killed  he  is  taxed  with  immorality.  These 
tactics,  familiar  in  party  warfare,  are  a  disgrace  to  those  who 
use  them.  Luther  and  Calvin  knew  well  what  they  were 
about  when  they  shielded  themselves  behind  damaged  worldly 
interests!  And  they  lived  all  the  days  of  their  life. 

When  depicting  all  society,  sketching  it  in  the  immensity 
of  its  turmoil,  it  happened — it  could  not  but  happen — that 
the  picture  displayed  more  of  evil  than  of  good;  that  some 
part  of  the  fresco  represented  a  guilty  couple;  and  the  critics 
at  once  raised  the  cry  of  immorality,  without  pointing  out 
the  morality  of  another  portion  intended  to  be  a  perfect  con- 
trast. As  the  critic  knew  nothing  of  the  general  plan,  I  could 
forgive  him,  all  the  more  because  one  can  no  more  hinder 
criticism  than  the  use  of  eyes,  tongues,  and  judgment.  Also 
the  time  for  an  impartial  verdict  is  not  yet  come  for  me. 
And,  after  all,  the  author  who  cannot  make  up  his  mind  to 
face  the  fire  of  criticism  should  no  more  think  of  writing  than 
a  traveller  should  start  on  his  journey  counting  on  a  perpet- 
ually clear  sky.  On  this  point  it  remains  to  be  said  that  the 
most  conscientious  moralists  doubt  greatly  whether  society 
can  show  as  many  good  actions  as  bad  ones;  and  in  the  pic- 
ture I  have  painted  of  it  there  are  more  virtuous  figures  than 
reprehensible  ones.  Blameworthy  actions,  faults  and  crimes, 
from  the  lightest  to  the  most  atrocious,  always  meet  with 
punishment,  human  or  divine,  signal  or  secret.  I  have  done 
better  than  the  historian,  for  I  am  free.  Cromwell  here  on 
earth  escaped  all  punishment  but  that  inflicted  by  thoughtful 
men.  And  on  this  point  there  have  been  divided  schools. 
Bossuet  even  showed  some  consideration  for  the  great  regi- 
cide. William  of  Orange,  the  usurper,  Hugues  Capet,  an- 
other usurper,  lived  to  old  age  with  no  more  qualms  or  fears 
than  Henri  IV.  or  Charles  I.  The  lives  of  Catherine  II.  and 
of  Frederick  of  Prussia  would  be  conclusive  against  any  kind 
of  moral  law,  if  they  were  judged  by  the  twofold  aspect  of 
the  morality  which  guides  ordinary  mortals,  and  that  which 
is  in  use  by  crowned  heads ;  for,  as  Napoleon  said,  for  kings 


20  .  INTRODUCTION 

and  statesmen  there  are  the  lesser  and  the  higher  morality. 
My  scenes  of  political  life  are  founded  on  this  profound 
observation.  It  is  not  a  law  to  history,  as  it  is  to  romance, 
to  make  for  a  beautiful  ideal.  History  is,  or  ought  to  be, 
what  it  was;  while  romance  ought  to  be  "the  better  world," 
as  was  said  by  Mme.  Necker,  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
thinkers  of  the  last  century. 

Still,  with  this  noble  falsity,  romance  would  be  nothing 
if  it  were  not  true  in  detail.  Walter  Scott,  obliged  as  he  was 
to  conform  to  the  ideas  of  an  essentially  hypocritical  nation, 
was  false  to  humanity  in  his  picture  of  woman,  because  his 
models  were  schismatics.  The  Protestant  woman  has  no 
ideal.  She  may  be  chaste,  pure,  virtuous;  but  her  unexpan- 
sive  love  will  always  be  as  calm  and  methodical  as  the  fulfil- 
ment of  a  duty.  It  might  seem  as  though  the  Virgin  Mary 
had  chilled  the  hearts  of  those  sophists  who  have  banished 
her  from  heaven  with  her  treasures  of  loving-kindness.  In 
Protestantism  there  is  no  possible  future  for  the  woman  who 
has  sinned;  while,  in  the  Catholic  Church,  the  hope  of  for- 
giveness makes  her  sublime.  Hence,  for  the  Protestant 
writer  there  is  but  one  Woman,  while  the  Catholic  writer 
finds  a  new  woman  in  each  new  situation.  If  Walter  Scott 
had  been  a  Catholic,  if  he  had  set  himself  the  task  of  describ- 
ing truly  the  various  phases  of  society  which  have  succes- 
sively existed  in  Scotland,  perhaps  the  painter  of  Efne  and 
Alice — the  two  figures  for  which  he  blamed  himself  in  his 
later  years — might  have  admitted  passion  with  its  sins  and 
punishments,  and  the  virtues  revealed  by  repentance.  Pas- 
sion is  the  sum-total  of  humanity.  Without  passion,  religion, 
history,  romance,  art,  would  all  be  useless. 

Some  persons,  seeing  me  collect  such  a  mass  of  facts  and 
paint  them  as  they  are,  with  passion  for  their  motive  power, 
have  supposed,  but  wrongly,  that  I  must  belong  to  the  school 
of  Sensualism  and  Materialism — two  aspects  of  the  same  thing 
—Pantheism.  But  their  misapprehension  was  perhaps  justi- 
fied— or  inevitable.  I  do  not  share  the  belief  in  indefinite 
progress  for  society  as  a  whole;  I  believe  in  man's  improve- 


INTRODUCTION  21 

ment  in  himself.  Those  who  insist  on  reading  in  me  the 
intention  to  consider  man  as  a  finished  creation  are  strangely 
mistaken.  Seraphita,  the  doctrine  in  action  of  the  Christian 
Buddha,  seems  to  me  an  ample  answer  to  this  rather  heedless 
accusation. 

In  certain  fragments  of  this  long  work  I  have  tried  to 
popularize  the  amazing  facts,  I  may  say  the  marvels,  of 
electricity,  which  in  man  is  metamorphosed  into  an  incal- 
culable force;  but  in  what  way  do  the  phenomena  of  brain 
and  nerves,  which  prove  the  existence  of  an  undiscovered 
world  of  psychology,  modify  the  necessary  and  undoubted 
relations  of  the  worlds  to  God  ?  In  what  way  can  they 
shake  the  Catholic  dogma  ?  Though  irrefutable  facts 
should  some  day  place  thought  in  the  class  of  fluids 
which  are  discerned  only  by  their  effects  while  their  sub- 
stance evades  our  senses,  even  when  aided  by  so  many 
mechanical  means,  the  result  will  be  the  same  as  when 
Christopher  Columbus  detected  that  the  earth  is  a  sphere, 
and  Galileo  demonstrated  its  rotation.  Our  future  will  be 
unchanged.  The  wonders  of  animal  magnetism,  with  which 
I  have  been  familiar  since  1820;  the  beautiful  experiments 
of  Gall,  Lavater's  successor;  all  the  men  who  have  studied 
mind  as  opticians  have  studied  light — two  not  dissimilar 
things — point  to  a  conclusion  in  favor  of  the  mystics,  the 
disciples  of  St.  John,  and  of  those  great  thinkers  who  have 
established  the  spiritual  world — the  sphere  in  which  are  re- 
vealed the  relations  of  God  and  man. 

A  sure  grasp  of  the  purport  of  this  work  will  make  it 
clear  that  I  attach  to  common,  daily  facts,  hidden  or  patent 
to  the  eye,  to  the  acts  of  individual  lives,  and  to  their  causes 
and  principles,  the  importance  which  historians  have  hith- 
erto ascribed  to  the  events  of  public  national  life.  The 
unknown  struggle  which  goes  on  in  a  valley  of  the  Indre 
between  Mme.  de  Mortsauf  and  her  passion  is  perhaps  as 
great  as  the  most  famous  of  battles  ("Le  Lys  dans  la 
Vallee").  In  one  the  glory  of  the  victor  is  at  stake;  in 
the  other  it  is  heaven.  The  misfortunes  of  the  two  Birot- 


22  INTRODUCTION 

teaus,  the  priest  and  the  perfumer,  to  me  are  those  of  man- 
kind. La  Fosseuse  ("Me'decin  de  Campagne")  and  Mme. 
Graslin  ("Cure*  de  Village")  are  almost  the  sum-total  of 
woman.  We  all  suffer  thus  every  day.  I  have  had  to  do 
a  hundred  times  what  Kichardson  did  but  once.  Lovelace 
has  a  thousand  forms,  for  social  corruption  takes  the  hues 
of  the  medium  in  which  it  lives.  Clarissa,  ou  the  contrary, 
the  lovely  image  of  impassioned  virtue,  is  drawn  in  lines  of 
distracting  purity.  To  create  a  variety  of  Virgins  it  needs 
a  Rafael.  In  this  respect,  perhaps  literature  must  yield  to 
painting. 

Still,  I  may  be  allowed  to  point  out  how  many  irre- 
proachable figures — as  regards  their  virtue — are  to  be  found 
in  the  portions  of  this  work  already  published:  Pierrette 
Lorrain,  Ursule  Mirouet,  Constance  Birotteau,  La  Fos- 
seuse, Euge'nie  Grandet,  Marguerite  Claes,  Pauline  de  Vil- 
lenoix,  Madame  Jules,  Madame  de  la  Chanterie,  Eve 
Chardon,  Mademoiselle  d'Esgrignon,  Madame  Firmiani, 
Agathe  Eouget,  Rene"e  de  Maucombe;  besides  several 
figures  in  the  middle-distance,  who,  though  less  conspic- 
uous than  these,  nevertheless,  offer  the  reader  an  example 
of  domestic  virtue;  Joseph  Lebas,  Genestas,  Benassis,  Bon- 
net the  cure,  Minoret  the  doctor,  Pillerault,  David  Se*chard, 
the  two  Birotteaus,  Chaperon  the  priest,  Judge  Popinot, 
Bourgeat,  the  Sauviats,  the  Tascherons,  and  many  more. 
Do  not  all  these  solve  the  difficult  literary  problem  which 
consists  in  making  a  virtuous  person  interesting? 

It  was  no  small  task  to  depict  the  two  or  three  thousand 
conspicuous  types  of  a  period;  for  this  is,  in  fact,  the  num- 
ber presented  to  us  by  each  generation,  and  which  the  Hu- 
man Comedy  will  require.  This  crowd  of  actors,  of  char- 
acters, this  multitude  of  lives,  needed  a  setting — if  I  may 
be  pardoned  the  expression,  a  gallery.  Hence  the  very 
natural  division,  as  already  known,  into  Scenes  of  Private 
Life,  of  Provincial  Life,  of  Parisian,  Political,  Military,  and 
Country  Life.  Under  these  six  heads  are  classified  all  the 
studies  of  manners  which  form  the  history  of  society  at 


INTRODUCTION  23 

large,  of  all  its  faits  et  gestes,  as  oar  ancestors  would  have 
said.  These  six  classes  correspond,  indeed,  to  familiar 
conceptions.  Each  has  its  own  sense  and  meaning,  and 
answers  to  an  epoch  in  the  life  of  man.  I  may  repeat 
here,  but  very  briefly,  what  was  written  by  Felix  Davin 
— a  young  genius  snatched  from  literature  by  an  early 
death.  After  being  informed  of  my  plan,  he  said  that 
the  Scenes  of  Private  Life  represented  childhood  and 
youth  and  their  errors,  as  the  Scenes  of  Provincial  Life 
represented  the  age  of  passion,  scheming,  self-interest,  and 
ambition.  Then  the  Scenes  of  Parisian  Life  give  a  picture 
of  the  tastes  and  vice  and  unbridled  powers  which  conduce 
to  the  habits  peculiar  to  great  cities,  where  the  extremes  of 
good  and  evil  meet.  Each  of  these  divisions  has  its  local 
color — Paris  and  the  Provinces — a  great  social  antithesis 
which  held  for  me  immense  resources. 

And  not  man  alone,  but  the  principal  events  of  life,  fall 
into  classes  by  types.  There  are  situations  which  occur  in 
every  life,  typical  phases,  and  this  is  one  of  the  details  I 
most  sought  after.  I  have  tried  to  give  an  idea  of  the 
different  districts  of  our  fine  country.  My  work  has  its 
geography,  as  it  has  its  genealogy  and  its  families,  its  places 
and  things,  its  persons  and  their  deeds ;  as  it  has  its  heraldry, 
its  nobles  and  commonalty,  its  artisans  and  peasants,  its 
politicians  and  dandies,  its  army — in  short,  a  whole  world 
of  its  own. 

After  describing  social  life  in  these  three  portions,  I  had 
to  delineate  certain  exceptional  lives,  which  comprehend  the 
interests  of  many  people,  or  of  everybody,  and  are  in  a  degree 
outside  the  general  law.  Hence  we  have  Scenes  of  Political 
Life.  This  vast  picture  of  society  being  finished  and  com- 
plete, was  it  not  needful  to  display  it  in  its  most  violent 
phase,  beside  itself,  as  it  were,  either  in  self-defence  or  for 
the  sake  of  conquest?  Hence  the  Scenes  of  Military  Life, 
as  yet  the  most  incomplete  portion  of  my  work,  but  for 
which  room  will  be  allowed  in  this  edition,  that  it  may 
form  part  of  it  when  done.  Finally,  the  Scenes  of  Country 


24:  INTRODUCTION 

Life  are,  in  a  way,  the  evening  of  this  long  day,  if  I  may 
so  call  the  social  drama.  In  that  part  are  to  be  found  the 
purest  natures,  and  the  application  of  the  great  principles 
of  order,  politics,  and  morality. 

Such  is  the  foundation,  full  of  actors,  full  of  comedies 
and  tragedies,  on  which  are  raised  the  Philosophical  Studies 
— the  second  part  of  my  work,  in  which  the  social  instrument 
of  all  these  effects  is  displayed,  and  the  ravages  of  the  mind 
are  painted,  feeling  after  feeling;  the  first  of  this  series, 
"Wild  Ass's  Skin,"  to  some  extent  forms  a  link  between 
the  Philosophical  Studies  and  Studies  of  Manners,  by  a 
work  of  almost  Oriental  fancy,  in  which  life  itself  is  shown 
in  a  mortal  struggle  with  the  very  element  of  all  passion. 

Besides  these,  there  will  be  a  series  of  Analytical  Studies, 
of  which  I  will  say  nothing,  for  one  only  is  published  as  yet 
— The  Physiology  of  Marriage. 

In  the  course  of  time  I  propose  writing  two  more  works 
of  this  class.  First,  the  Pathology  of  Social  Life,  then  an 
Anatomy  of  Educational  Bodies,  and  a  Monograph  on  Virtue. 

In  looking  forward  to  what  remains  to  be  done,  my  read- 
ers will  perhaps  echo  what  my  publishers  say,  "Please  God 
to  spare  you!"  I  only  ask  to  be  less  tormented  by  men  and 
things  than  I  have  hitherto  been  since  I  began  this  terrific 
labor.  I  have  had  this  in  my  favor,  and  I  thank  God  for 
it,  that  the  talents  of  the  time,  the  finest  characters  and  the 
truest  friends,  as  noble  in  their  private  lives  as  the  former 
are  in  public  life,  have  wrung  my  hand  and  said,  Courage! 

And  why  should  I  not  confess  that  this  friendship,  and 
the  testimony  here  and  there  of  persons  unknown  to  me, 
have  upheld  me  in  my  career,  both  against  myself  and 
against  unjust  attacks;  against  the  calumny  which  has 
often  persecuted  me,  against  discouragement,  and  against 
the  too  eager  hopefulness  whose  utterances  are  misinter- 
preted as  those  of  overweening  conceit?  I  had  resolved 
to  display  stolid  stoicism  in  the  face  of  abuse  and  insults; 
but  on  two  occasions  base  slanders  have  necessitated  a 
reply.  Though  the  advocates  of  forgiveness  of  injuries 


INTRODUCTION  25 

may  regret  that  I  should  have  displayed  my  skill  in  liter- 
ary fence,  there  are  many  Christians  who  are  of  opinion 
that  we  live  in  times  when  it  is  as  well  to  show  sometimes 
that  silence  springs  from  generosity. 

The  vastness  of  a  plan  which  includes  both  a  history 
and  a  criticism  of  society,  an  analysis  of  its  evils,  and  a 
discussion  of  its  principles,  authorizes  me,  I  think,  in  giv- 
ing to  my  work  the  title  under  which  it  now  appears — 
"THE  HUMAN  COMEDY."  Is  this  too  ambitious?  Is  it 
not  exact?  That,  when  it  is  complete,  the  public  must 
pronounce. 

PARIS,  July,  1842. 


Vol.  A.  BALZAC — 2 


Dedicated  to  Mademoiselle  Marie  de  Montheau 

Y  YALF' WA  Y  D0  WN  the  Eue  Saint-Denis,  almost  at 
/  i  the  corner  of  the  Eue  du  Petit-Lion,  there  stood  for. 
merly  one  of  those  delightful  houses  which  enable 
historians  to  reconstruct  old  Paris  by  analogy.  The  threat- 
ening walls  of  this  tumbledown  abode  seemed  to  have  been 
decorated  with  hieroglyphics.  For  what  other  name  could 
the  passer-by  give  to  the  X's  and  Y's  which  the  horizontal 
or  diagonal  timbers  traced  on  the  front,  outlined  by  little  par- 
allel cracks  in  the  plaster  ?  It  was  evident  that  every  beam 
quivered  in  its  mortises  at  the  passing  of  the  lightest  vehicle. 
This  venerable  structure  was  crowned  by  a  triangular  roof  of 
which  no  example  will,  ere  long,  be  seen  in  Paris.  This  cov- 
ering, warped  by  the  extremes  of  the  Paris  climate,  projected 
three  feet  over  the  roadway,  as  much  to  protect  the  threshold 
from  the  rainfall  as  to  shelter  the  wall  of  a  loft  and  its  sill- 
less  dormer  window.  This  upper  story  was  built  of  planks, 
overlapping  each  other  like  slates,  in  order,  no  doubt,  not  to 
overweight  the  frail  house. 

One  rainy  morning  in  the  month  of  March,  a  young  man 
carefully  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  stood  under  the  awning  of  a 
shop  opposite  this  old  house,  which  he  was  studying  with 
the  enthusiasm  of  an  antiquary.  In  point  of  fact,  this  relic 
of  the  civic  life  of  the  sixteenth  century  offered  more  than 
one  problem  to  the  consideration  of  an  observer.  Each 
story  presented  some  singularity;  on  the  first  floor  four 
tall,  narrow  windows,  close  together,  were  filled  as  to  the 


28  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

lower  panes  with  boards,  so  as  to  produce  the  doubtful 
light  by  which  a  clever  salesman  can  ascribe  to  his  goods 
the  color  his  customers  inquire  for.  The  young  man 
seemed  very  scornful  of  this  essential  part  of  the  house; 
his  eyes  had  not  yet  rested  on  it.  The  windows  of  the 
second  floor,  where  the  Venetian  blinds  were  drawn  up, 
revealing  little  dingy  muslin  curtains  behind  the  large  Bo- 
hemian glass  panes,  did  not  interest  him  either.  His  at- 
tention was  attracted  to  the  third  floor,  to  the  modest 
sash-frames  of  wood,  so  clumsily  wrought  that  they  might 
have  found  a  place  in  the  Museum  of  Arts  and  Crafts  to 
illustrate  the  early  efforts  of  French  carpentry.  These 
windows  were  glazed  with  small  squares  of  glass  so  green 
that,  but  for  his  good  eyes,  the  young  man  could  not  have 
seen  the  blue-checked  cotton  curtains  which  screened  the 
mysteries  of  the  room  from  profane  eyes.  Now  and  then 
the  watcher,  weary  of  his  fruitless  contemplation,  or  of  the 
silence  in  which  the  house  was  buried,  like  the  whole 
neighborhood,  dropped  his  eyes  toward  the  lower  regions. 
An  involuntary  smile  parted  his  lips  each  time  he  looked 
at  the  shop,  where,  in  fact,  there  were  some  laughable 
details. 

A  formidable  wooden  beam,  resting  on  four  pillars, 
which  appeared  to  have  bent  under  the  weight  of  the  de- 
crepit house,  had  been  incrusted  with  as  many  coats  of  dif- 
ferent paint  as  there  are  of  rouge  on  an  old  duchess's  cheek. 
In  the  middle  of  this  broad  and  fantastically  carved  joist 
there  was  an  old  painting  representing  a  cat  playing  rack- 
ets. This  picture  was  what  moved  the  young  man  to  mirth. 
But  it  must  be  said  that  the  wittiest  of  modern  painters 
could  not  invent  so  comical  a  caricature.  The  animal  held 
in  one  of  its  forepaws  a  racket  as  big  as  itself,  and  stood  on 
its  hind  legs  to  aim  at  hitting  an  enormous  ball,  returned 
by  a  man  in  a  fine  embroidered  coat.  Drawing,  color,  and 
accessories,  all  were  treated  in  such  a  way  as  to  suggest  that 
the  artist  had  meant  to  make  game  of  the  shop-owner  and 
of  the  passing  observer.  Time,  while  impairing  this  artless 


AT    THE   SIGN   OF    THE    CAT   AND    RACKET  29 

painting,  had  made  it  yet  more  grotesque  by  introducing 
some  uncertain  features  which  must  have  puzzled  the  con- 
scientious idler.  For  instance,  the  cat's  tail  had  been  eaten 
into  in  such  a  way  that  it  might  now  have  been  taken  for 
the  figure  of  a  spectator — so  long,  and  thick,  and  furry 
were  the  tails  of  our  forefathers'  cats.  To  the  right  of  the 
picture,  on  an  azure  field  which  ill  disguised  the  decay  of 
the  wood,  might  be  read  the  name  "Guillaume, "  and  to 
the  left,  "Successor  to  Master  Chevrel."  Sun  and  rain 
had  worn  away  most  of  the  gilding  parsimoniously  applied 
to  the  letters  of  this  superscription,  in  which  the  U's  and 
V's  had  changed  places  in  obedience  to  the  laws  of  old- 
world  orthography. 

To  quench  the  pride  of  those  who  believe  that  the  world 
is  growing  cleverer  day  by  day,  and  that  modern  humbug 
surpasses  everything,  it  may  be  observed  that  these  signs, 
of  which  the  origin  seems  so  whimsical  to  many  Paris  mer- 
chants, are  the  dead  pictures  of  once  living  pictures  by  which, 
our  roguish  ancestors  contrived  to  tempt  customers  into  their 
houses.  Thus  the  Spinning  Sow,  the  Green  Monkey,  and 
others,  were  animals  in  cages  whose  skill  astonished  the 
passer-by,  and  whose  accomplishments  prove  the  patience 
of  the  fifteenth-century  artisan.  Such  curiosities  did  more 
to  enrich  their  fortunate  owners  than  the  signs  of  "Provi- 
dence," "Good-faith,"  "Grace  of  God,"  and  "Decapitation 
of  John  the  Baptist,"  which  may  still  be  seen  in  the  Rue 
Saint-Denis. 

However,  our  stranger  was  certainly  not  standing  there  to 
admire  the  cat,  which  a  minute's  attention  sufficed  to  stamp 
on  his  memory.  The  yonng  man  himself  had  his  peculiari- 
ties. His  cloak,  folded  after  the  manner  of  an  antique  drap- 
ery, showed  a  smart  pair  of  shoes,  all  the  more  remarkable 
in  the  midst  of  the  Paris  rnud,  because  he  wore  white  silk 
stockings,  on  which  the  splashes  betrayed  his  impatience. 
He  had  just  come,  no  doubt,  from  a  wedding  or  a  ball;  for 
at  this  early  hour  he  had  in  his  hand  a  pair  of  white  gloves, 
and  his  black  hair,  now  out  of  curl,  and  flowing  over  his 


30  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

shoulders,  showed  that  it  had  been  dressed  a  la  Caracalla,  a 
fashion  introduced  as  much  by  David's  school  of  painting  as 
by  the  mania  for  Greek  and  Roman  styles  which  character- 
ized the  early  years  of  this  century. 

In  spite  of  the  noise  made  by  a  few  market  gardeners, 
who,  being  late,  rattled  past  toward  the  great  market-place 
at  a  gallop,  the  busy  street  lay  in  a  stillness  of  which  the 
magic  charm  is  known  only  to  those  who  have  wandered 
through  deserted  Paris  at  the  hours  when  its  roar,  hushed 
for  a  moment,  rises  and  spreads  in  the  distance  like  the  great 
voice  of  the  sea.  This  strange  young  man  must  have  seemed 
as  curious  to  the  shopkeeping  folk  of  the  "Cat  and  Racket" 
as  the  "Cat  and  Eacket"  was  to  him.  A  dazzlingly  white 
cravat  made  his  anxious  face  look  even  paler  than  it  really 
was.  The  fire  that  flashed  in  his  black  eyes,  gloomy  and 
sparkling  by  turns,  was  in  harmony  with  the  singular  out- 
line of  his  features,  with  his  wide,  flexible  mouth,  hardened 
into  a  smile.  His  forehead,  knit  with  violent  annoyance, 
had  a  stamp  of  doom.  Is  not  the  forehead  the  most  pro- 
phetic feature  of  a  man?  When  the  stranger's  brow  ex- 
pressed passion  the  furrows  formed  in  it  were  terrible  in 
their  strength  and  energy;  but  when  he  recovered  his  calm- 
ness, so  easily  upset,  it  beamed  with  a  luminous  grace  which 
gave  great  attractiveness  to  a  countenance  in  which  joy,  grief, 
love,  anger,  or  scorn  blazed  out  so  contagiously  that  the  cold- 
est man  could  not  fail  to  be  impressed. 

He  was  so  thoroughly  vexed  by  the  time  when  the  dormer 
window  of  the  loft  was  suddenly  flung  open  that  he  did  not 
observe  the  apparition  of  three  laughing  faces,  pink  and 
white  and  chubby,  but  as  vulgar  as  the  face  of  Commerce 
as  it  is  seen  in  sculpture  on  certain  monuments.  These  three 
faces,  framed  by  the  window,  recalled  the  puffy  cherubs  float- 
ing among  the  clouds  that  surround  God  the  Father.  The 
apprentices  snuffed  up  the  exhalations  of  the  street  with  an 
eagerness  that  showed  how  hot  and  poisonous  the  atmosphere 
of  their  garret  must  be.  After  pointing  to  the  singular  sen- 
tinel, the  most  jovial,  as  he  seemed,  of  the  apprentices  retired 


AT    THE    SIGN   OF    THE    CAT   AND    RACKET  31 

and  came  back  holding  an  instrument  whose  hard  metal  pipe 
is  now  superseded  by  a  leather  tube ;  and  they  all  grinned 
with  mischief  as  they  looked  down  on  the  loiterer,  and 
sprinkled  him  with  a  fine  white  shower  of  ,which  the  scent 
proved  that  three  chins  had  just  been  shaved.  Standing 
on  tiptoe,  in  the  furthest  corner  o£  their  loft,  to  enjoy  their 
victim's  rage,  the  lads  ceased  laughing  on  seeing  the  haughty 
indifference  with  which  the  young  man  shook  his  cloak,  and 
the  intense  contempt  expressed  by  his  face  as  he  glanced  up 
at  the  empty  window-frame. 

At  this  moment  a  slender  white  hand  threw  up  the  lower 
half  of  one  of  the  clumsy  windows  on  the  third  floor  by  the 
aid  of  the  sash  runners,  of  which  the  pulley  so  often  sud- 
denly gives  way  and  releases  the  heavy  panes  it  ought  to 
hold  up.  The  watcher  was  then  rewarded  for  his  long  wait- 
ing. The  face  of  a  young  girl  appeared,  as  fresh  as  one 
of  the  white  cups  that  bloom  on  the  bosom  of  the  waters, 
crowned  by  a  frill  of  tumbled  muslin,  which  gave  her  head 
a  look  of  exquisite  innocence.  Though  wrapped  in  brown 
stuff,  her  neck  and  shoulders  gleamed  here  and  there  through 
little  openings  left  by  her  movements  in  sleep.  No  expres- 
sion of  embarrassment  detracted  from  the  candor  of  her  face, 
or  the  calm  look  of  eyes  immortalized  long  since  in  the  sub- 
lime works  of  Rafael;  here  were  the  same  grace,  the  same 
repose  as  in  these  Virgins,  and  now  proverbial.  There  was 
a  delightful  contrast  between  the  cheeks  of  that  face  on 
which  sleep  had,  as  it  were,  given  high  relief  to  a  super- 
abundance of  life,  and  the  antiquity  of  the  heavy  window 
with  its  clumsy  shape  and  black  sill.  Like  those  day-blow- 
ing flowers,  which  in  the  early  morning  have  not  yet  unfurled 
their  cups,  twisted  by  the  chills  of  night,  the  girl,  as  yet 
hardly  awake,  let  her  blue  eyes  wander  beyond  the  neigh- 
boring roofs  to  look  at  the  sky ;  then,  from  habit,  she  cast 
them  down  on  the  gloomy  depths  of  the  street,  where  they 
immediately  met  those  of  her  adorer.  Vanity,  no  doubt, 
distressed  her  at  being  seen  in  undress;  she  started  back, 
the  worn  pulley  gave  way,  and  the  sash  fell  with  the  rapid 


32  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

run,  which  in  our  day  has  earned  for  this  artless  invention 
of  our  forefathers  an  odious  name.1  The  vision  had  disap- 
peared. To  the  young  man  the  most  radiant  star  of  morning 
seemed  to  be  hidden  by  a  cloud. 

During  these  little  incidents  the  heavy  inside  shutters  that 
protected  the  slight  windows  of  the  shop  of  the  "Cat  and 
Eacket"  had  been  removed  as  if  by  magic.  The  old  door 
with  its  knocker  was  opened  back  against  the  wall  of  the  en- 
try by  a  manservant,  apparently  coeval  with  the  sign,  who, 
with  a  shaking  hand,  hung  upon  it  a  square  of  cloth,  on  which 
were  embroidered  in  yellow  silk  the  words:  "Guillaume,  suc- 
cessor to  Chevrel. "  Many  a  passer-by  would  have  found  it 
difficult  to  guess  the  class  of  trade  carried  on  by  Monsieur 
Guillaume.  Between  the  strong  iron  bars  which  protected 
his  shop  windows  on  the  outside,  certain  packages,  wrapped 
in  brown  linen,  were  hardly  visible,  though  as  numerous  as 
herrings  swimming  in  a  shoal.  Notwithstanding  the  primi- 
tive aspect  of  the  Gothic  front,  Monsieur  Guillaume,  of  all  the 
merchant  clothiers  in  Paris,  was  the  one  whose  stores  were 
always  the  best  provided,  whose  connections  were  the  most 
extensive,  and  whose  commercial  honesty  never  lay  under 
the  slightest  suspicion.  If  some  of  his  brethren  in  business 
made  a  contract  with  the  Government,  and  had  not  the  re- 
quired quantity  of  cloth,  he  was  always  ready  to  deliver  it, 
however  large  the  number  of  pieces  tendered  for.  The  wily 
dealer  knew  a  thousand  ways  of  extracting  the  largest  profits 
without  being  obliged,  like  them,  to  court  patrons,  cringing 
to  them,  or  making  them  costly  presents.  When  his  fellow- 
tradesmen  could  only  pay  in  good  bills  of  long  date,  he  would 
mention  his  notary  as  an  accommodating  man,  and  managed 
to  get  a  second  profit  out  of  the  bargain,  thanks  to  this  ar- 
rangement, which  had  made  it  a  proverb  among  the  traders 
of  the  Rue  Saint-Denis:  "Heaven  preserve  you  from  Mon- 
sieur Guillaume's  notary!"  to  signify  a  heavy  discount. 

The  old  merchant  was  to  be  seen  standing  on  the  thresh- 
hold  of  his  shop,  as  if  by  a  miracle,  the  instant  the  servant 

1  Fenetre  a  la  Guillotine. 


AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   CAT  AND    RACKET  33 

withdrew.  Monsieur  Ghiillaume  looked  at  the  Rue  Saint- 
Denis,  at  the  neighboring  shops,  and  at  the  weather,  like  a 
man  disembarking  at  Havre,  and  seeing  France  once  more 
after  a  long  voyage.  Having  convinced  himself  that  noth- 
ing had  changed  while  he  was  asleep,  he  presently  perceived 
the  stranger  on  guard,  and  he,  on  his  part,  gazed  at  the  patri- 
archal draper  as  Hurnboldt  may  have  scrutinized  the  first 
electric  eel  he  saw  in  America.  Monsieur  Gruillaume  wore 
loose  black  velvet  breeches,  pepper-and-salt  stockings,  and 
square-toed  shoes  with  silver  buckles.  His  coat,  with  square- 
cut  fronts,  square-cut  tails,  and  square-cut  collar,  clothed  his 
slightly  bent  figure  in  greenish  cloth,  finished  with  white 
metal  buttons,  tawny  from  wear.  His  gray  hair  was  so  ac- 
curately combed  and  flattened  over  his  yellow  pate  that  it 
'made  it  look  like  a  furrowed  field.  His  little  green  eyes, 
that  might  have  been  pierced  with  a  gimlet,  flashed  beneath 
arches  faintly  tinged  with  red  in  the  place  of  eyebrows.  Anx- 
ieties had  wrinkled  his  forehead  with  as  many  horizontal  lines 
as  there  were  creases  in  his  coat.  This  colorless  face  ex- 
pressed patience,  commercial  shrewdness,  and  the  sort  of 
wily  cupidity  which  is  needful  in  business.  At  that  time 
these  old  families  were  less  rare  than  they  are  now,  in  which 
the  characteristic  habits  and  costume  of  their  calling,  surviv- 
ing in  the  midst  of  more  recent  civilization,  were  preserved 
as  cherished  traditions,  like  the  antediluvian  remains  found 
by  Cuvier  in  the  quarries. 

The  head  of  the  Guillaume  family  was  a  notable  upholder 
of  ancient  practices;  he  might  be  heard  to  regret  the  Provost 
of  Merchants,  and  never  did  he  mention  a  decision  of  the 
Tribunal  of  Commerce  without  calling  it  the  "Sentence  of 
the  Consuls."  Up  and  dressed  the  first  of  the  household,  in 
obedience,  no  doubt,  to  these  old  customs,  he  stood  sternly 
awaiting  the  appearance  of  his  three  assistants,  ready  to-scold 
them  in  case  they  were  late.  These  young  disciples  of  Mer- 
cury knew  nothing  more  terrible  than  the  wordless  assiduity 
with  which  the  master  scrutinized  their  faces  and  their  move- 
ments on  Monday  in  search  of  evidence  or  traces  of  their 


34  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

pranks.  But  at  this  moment  the  old  clothier  paid  no  heed 
to  his  apprentices;  he  was  absorbed  in  trying  to  divine  the 
motive  of  the  anxious  looks  which  the  young  man  in  silk 
stockings  and  a  cloak  cast  alternately  at  his  signboard  and 
into  the  depths  of  his  shop.  The  daylight  was  now  brighter, 
and  enabled  the  stranger  to  discern  the  cashier's  corner,  in- 
closed by  a  railing  and  screened  by  old  green  silk  curtains, 
where  were  kept  the  immense  ledgers,  the  silent  oracles  of 
the  house.  The  too  inquisitive  gazer  seemed  to  covet  this 
little  nook,  and  to  be  taking  the  plan  of  a  dining-room  at 
one  side,  lighted  by  a  skylight,  whence  the  family  at  meals 
could  easily  see  the  smallest  incident  that  might  occur  at  the 
shop- door.  So  much  affection  for  his  dwelling  seemed  sus- 
picious to  a  trader  who  had  lived  long  enough  to  remember 
the  law  of  maximum  prices;  Monsieur  Guillaume  naturally 
thought  that  this  sinister  personage  had  an  eye  to  the  till  of 
the  Cat  and  Kacket.  After  quietly  observing  the  mute  duel 
which  was  going  on  between  his  master  and  the  stranger,  the 
eldest  of  the  apprentices,  having  seen  that  the  young  man 
was  stealthily  watching  the  windows  of  the  third  floor,  vent- 
ured to  place  himself  on  the  stone  flag  where  Monsieur  Guil- 
laume was  standing.  He  took  two  steps  out  into  the  street, 
raised  his  head  and  fancied  that  he  caught  sight  of  Madem- 
oiselle Augustine  Guillaume  in  hasty  retreat.  The  draper, 
annoyed  by  his  assistant's  perspicacity,  shot  a  side  glance  at 
him;  but  the  draper  and  his  amorous  apprentice  were  sud- 
denly relieved  from  the  fears  which  the  young  man's  presence 
had  excited  in  their  minds.  He  hailed  a  hackney  cab  on  its 
way  to  a  neighboring  stand,  and  jumped  into  it  with  an  air 
of  affected  indifference.  This  departure  was  a  balm  to  the 
hearts  of  the  other  two  lads,  who  had  been  somewhat  uneasy 
as  to  meeting  the  victim  of  their  practical  joke. 

"Well,  gentlemen,  what  ails  you  that  you  are  standing 
there  with  your  arms  folded?"  said  Monsieur  Guillaume  to 
his  three  neophytes.  "In  former  days,  bless  you,  when  I 
was  in  Master  Chevrel's  service,  I  should  have  overhauled 
more  than  two  pieces  of  cloth  by  this  time." 


AT    THE   SIGN   OF    THE   CAT   AND    RACKET  35 

"Then  it  was  daylight  earlier,"  said  the  second  assistant, 
whose  duty  this  was. 

The  old  shopkeeper  could  not  help  smiling.  Though  two 
of  these  young  fellows,  who  were  confided  to  his  care  by  their 
fathers,  rich  manufacturers  at  Louviers  and  at  Sedan,  had 
only  to  ask  and  to  have  a  hundred  thousand  francs  the  day 
when  they  were  old  enough  to  settle  in  life,  Guillaume  re- 
garded it  as  his  duty  to  keep  them  under  the  rod  of  an  old- 
world  despotism,  unknown  nowadays  in  the  showy  modern 
shops,  where  the  apprentices  expect  to  be  rich  men  at  thirty. 
He  made  them  work  like  negroes.  These  three  assistants 
were  equal  to  a  business  which  would  harry  ten  such  clerks 
as  those  whose  sybaritical  tastes  now  swell  the  columns  of 
the  budget.  Not  a  sound  disturbed  the  peace  of  this  solemn 
house,  where  the  hinges  were  always  oiled,  and  where  the 
meanest  article  of  furniture  showed  the  respectable  cleanli- 
ness which  reveals  strict  order  and  economy.  The  most 
waggish  of  the  three  youths  often  amused  himself  by  writ- 
ing the  date  of  its  first  appearance  on  the  Gruyere  cheese 
which  was  left  to  their  tender  mercies  at  breakfast,  and 
which  it  was  their  pleasure  to  leave  untouched.  This  bit 
of  mischief,  and  few  others  of  the  same  stamp,  would  some- 
times bring  a  smile  on  the  face  of  the  younger  of  Guillaume's 
two  daughters,  the  pretty  maiden  who  has  just  now  appeared 
to  the  bewitched  man  in  the  street. 

Though  each  of  the  apprentices,  even  the  eldest,  paid  a 
round  suni  for  his  board,  not  one  of  them  would  have  been 
bold  enough  to  remain  at  the  master's  table  when  dessert  was 
served.  When  Madame  Guillaume  talked  of  dressing  the 
salad,  the  hapless  youths  trembled  as  they  thought  of  the 
thrift  with  which  her  prudent  hand  dispensed  the  oil.  They 
could  never  think  of  spending  a  night  away  from  the  house 
without  having  given,  long  before,  a  plausible  reason  for 
such  an  irregularity.  Every  Sunday,  each  in  his  turn,  two 
of  them  accompanied  the  Guillaume  family  to  mass  at  Saint- 
Leu,  and  to  vespers.  Mesdemoiselles  Virginie  and  Augus- 
tine, simply  attired  in  cotton  print,  each  took  the  arm  of  an 


86  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

apprentice  and  walked  in  front,  under  the  piercing  eye  of 
their  mother,  who  closed  the  little  family  procession  with  her 
husband,  accustomed  by  her  to  carry  two  large  prayer-books, 
bound  in  black  morocco.  The  second  apprentice  received 
no  salary.  As  for  the  eldest,  whose  twelve  years  of  perse- 
verance and  discretion  had  initiated  him  into  the  secrets  of 
the  house,  he  was  paid  eight  hundred  francs  a  year  as  the 
reward  of  his  labors.  On  certain  family  festivals  he  received 
as  a  gratuity  some  little  gift,  to  which  Madame  Guillaume's 
gray  and  wrinkled  hand  alone  gave  value — netted  purses, 
which  she  took  care  to  stuff  with  cotton  wool,  to  show  off 
the  fancy  stitches,  braces  of  the  strongest  make,  or  heavy 
silk  stockings.  Sometimes,  but  rarely,  this  prime  minister 
was  admitted  to  share  the  pleasures  of  the  family  when  they 
went  into  the  country,  or  when,  after  waiting  for  months, 
they  made  up  their  mind  to  exert  the  right  acquired  by  tak- 
ing a  box  at  the  theatre  to  command  a  piece  which  Paris  had 
already  forgotten. 

As  to  the  other  assistants,  the  barrier  of  respect  which 
formerly  divided  a  master  draper  from  his  apprentices  was 
so  firmly  established  between  them  and  the  old  shopkeeper, 
that  they  would  have  been  more  likely  to  steal  a  piece  of 
cloth  than  to  infringe  this  time-honored  etiquette.  Such 
reserve  may  now  appear  ridiculous;  but  these  old  houses 
were  a  school  of  honesty  and  sound  morals.  The  masters 
adopted  their  apprentices.  The  young  man's  linen  was  cared 
for,  mended,  and  often  replaced  by  the  mistress  of  the  house. 
If  an  apprentice  fell  ill,  he  was  the  object  of  truly  maternal 
attention.  In  a  case  of  danger  the  master  lavished  his  money 
in  calling  in  the  most  celebrated  physicians,  for  he  was  not 
answerable  to  their  parents  merely  for  the  good  conduct  and 
training  of  the  lads.  If  one  of  them,  whose  character  was 
unimpeachable,  suffered  misfortune,  these  old  tradesmen 
knew  how  to  value  the  intelligence  he  had  displayed,  and 
they  did  not  hesitate  to  intrust  the  happiness  of  their  daugh- 
ters to  men  whom  they  had  long  trusted  with  their  fortunes. 
Guillaume  was  one  of  these  men  of  the  old  school,  and  if 


AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  37 

he  had  their  ridiculous  side,  he  had  all  their  good  qualities; 
and  Joseph  Lebas,  the  chief  assistant,  an  orphan  without  any 
fortune,  was  in  his  mind  destined  to  be  the  husband  of  Vir- 
ginie,  his  elder  daughter.  But  Joseph  did  not  share  the 
symmetrical  ideas  of  his  master,  who  would  not  for  an  em- 
pire have  given  his  second  daughter  in  marriage  before  the 
elder.  The  unhappy  assistant  felt  that  his  heart  was  wholly 
given  to  Mademoiselle  Augustine,  the  younger.  In  order 
to  justify  this  passion,  which  had  grown  up  in  secret,  it  is 
necessary  to  inquire  a  little  further  into  the  springs  of  the 
absolute  government  which  ruled  the  old  cloth -merchant's 
household. 

Guillaume  had  two  daughters.  The  elder,  Mademoiselle 
Virginie,  was  the  very  image  of  her  mother.  Madame  Guil- 
laume, daughter  of  the  Sieur  Chevrel,  sat  so  upright  in  the 
stool  behind  her  desk  that  more  than  once  she  had  heard 
some  wag  bet  that  she  was  a  stuffed  figure.  Her  long,  thin 
face  betrayed  exaggerated  piety.  Devoid  of  attractions  or 
of  amiable  manners,  Madame  Guillaume  commonly  decorated 
her  head — that  of  a  woman  near  on  sixty — with  a  cap  of  a 
particular  and  unvarying  shape,  with  long  lappets,  like  that 
of  a  widow.  In  all  the  neighborhood  she  was  known  as  the 
"portress  nun."  Her  speech  was  curt,  and  her  movements 
had  the  stiff  precision  of  a  semaphore.  Her  eye,  with  a 
gleam  in  it  like  a  cat's,  seemed  to  spite  the  world  because 
she  was  so  ugly.  Mademoiselle  Virginie,  brought  up,  like 
her  younger  sister,  under  the  domestic  rule  of  her  mother, 
had  reached  the  age  of  eight-and-twenty.  Youth  mitigated 
the  graceless  effect  which  her  likeness  to  her  mother  some- 
times gave  to  her  features,  but  maternal  austerity  had  en- 
dowed her  with  two  great  qualities  which  made  up  for 
everything.  She  was  patient  and  gentle.  Mademoiselle 
Augustine,  who  was  but  just  eighteen,  was  not  like  either 
her  father  or  her  mother.  She  was  one  of  those  daughters 
whose  total  absence  of  any  physical  affinity  with  their  parents 
makes  one  believe  in  the  adage:  God  gives  children.  Au- 
gustine was  little,  or,  to  describe  her  more  truly,  delicately 


38  BALZAC 'S    WORKS 

made.  Full  of  gracious  candor,  a  man  of  the  world  could 
have  found  no  fault  in  the  charming  girl  beyond  a  certain 
meanness  of  gesture  or  vulgarity  of  attitude,  and  sometimes 
a  want  of  ease.  Her  silent  and  placid  face  was  full  of  the 
transient  melancholy  which  comes  over  all  young  girls  who 
are  too  weak  to  dare  to  resist  their  mother's  will. 

The  two  sisters,  always  plainly  dressed,  could  not  gratify 
the  innate  vanity  of  womanhood  but  by  a  luxury  of  cleanli- 
ness which  became  them  wonderfully,  and  made  them  har- 
monize with  the  polished  counters  and  the  shining  shelves, 
on  which  the  old  manservant  never  left  a  speck  of  dust,  and 
with  the  old-world  simplicity  of  all  they  saw  about  them. 
As  their  style  of  living  compelled  them  to  find  the  elements 
of  happiness  in  persistent  work,  Augustine  and  Virginie  had 
hitherto  always  satisfied  their  mother,  who  secretly  prided 
herself  on  the  perfect  characters  of  her  two  daughters.  It  is 
easy  to  imagine  the  results  of  the  training  they  had  received. 
Brought  up  to  a  commercial  life,  accustomed  to  hear  nothing 
but  dreary  arguments  and  calculations  about  trade,  having 
studied  nothing  but  grammar,  book-keeping,  a  little  Bible- 
history,  and  the  history  of  France  in  Le  Kagois,  and  never 
reading  any  book  but  those  their  mother  would  sanction, 
their  ideas  had  not  acquired  much  scope.  They  knew  per- 
fectly how  to  keep  house;  they  were  familiar  with  the  prices 
of  things;  they  understood  the  difficulty  of  amassing  money; 
they  were  economical,  and  had  a  great  respect  for  the  quali- 
ties that  make  a  man  of  business.  Although  their  father 
was  rich,  they  were  as  skilled  in  darning  as  in  embroidery; 
their  mother  often  talked  of  having  them  taught  to  cook, 
so  that  they  might  know  how  to  order  a  dinner  and  scold  a 
cook  with  due  knowledge.  They  knew  nothing  of  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  world;  and,  seeing  how  their  parents  spent  their 
exemplary  lives,  they  very  rarely  suffered  their  eyes  to  wan- 
der beyond  the  walls  of  their  hereditary  home,  which  to  their 
mother  was  the  whole  universe.  The  meetings  to  which 
family  anniversaries  gave  rise  filled  in  the  future  of  earthly 
joy  to  them. 


39 

When  the  great  drawing-room  on  the  second  floor  was  to 
be  prepared  to  receive  company — Madame  Roquin,  a  Demoi- 
selle Chevrel,  fifteen  months  younger  than  her  cousin,  and 
bedecked  with  diamonds;  young  Rabourdin,  employed  in  the 
Finance  Office;  Monsieur  Cesar  Birotteau,  the  rich  perfumer, 
and  his  wife,  known  as  Madame  Ce'sar;  Monsieur  Camusot, 
the  richest  silk-mercer  in  the  Rue  des  Bourdonnais,  with  his 
father-in-law,  Monsieur  Cardot,  two  or  three  old  bankers, 
and  some  immaculate  ladies — the  arrangements,  made  neces- 
sary by  the  way  in  which  everything  was  packed  away — the 
plate,  the  Dresden  china,  the  candlesticks,  and  the  glass — : 
made  a  variety  in  the  monotonous  lives  of  the  three  women, 
who  came  and  went  and  exerted  themselves  as  nuns  would 
to  receive  their  bishop.  Then,  in  the  evening,  when  all 
three  were  tired  out  with  having  wiped,  rubbed,  unpacked, 
and  arranged  all  the  gauds  of  the  festival,  as  the  girls  helped 
their  mother  to  undress,  Madame  Guillaume  would  say  to 
them,  "Children,  we  have  done  nothing  to-day." 

When,  on  very  great  occasions,  "the  portress  nun"  al- 
lowed dancing,  restricting  the  games  of  boston,  whist,  and 
backgammon  within  the  limits  of  her  bedroom,  such  a  con- 
cession was  accounted  as  the  most  unhoped  felicity,  and 
made  them  happier  than  going  to  the  great  balls,  to  two  or 
three  of  which  Gruillaume  would  take  the  girls  at  the  time 
of  the  Carnival. 

And  once  a  year  the  worthy  draper  gave  an  entertain- 
ment, when  he  spared  no  expense.  However  rich  and  fash- 
ionable the  persons  invited  might  be,  they  were  careful  not 
to  be  absent;  for  the  most  important  houses  on  the  Exchange 
had  recourse  to  the  immense  credit,  the  fortune,  or  the  time- 
honored  experience  of  Monsieur  Guillaume.  Still,  the  ex- 
cellent merchant's  two  daughters  did  not  benefit  as  much 
as  might  be  supposed  by  the  lessons  the  world  has  to  offer 
to  young  spirits.  At  these  parties,  which  were  indeed  set 
down  in  the  ledger  to  the  credit  of  the  house,  they  wore 
dresses  the  shabbiness  of  which  made  them  blush.  Their 
style  of  dancing  was  not  in  any  way  remarkable,  and  their 


40  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

mother's  surveillance  did  not  allow  of  their  holding  any  con- 
versation with  their  partners  beyond  Yes  and  No.  Also,  the 
law  of  the  old  sign  of  the  Cat  and  Racket  commanded  that 
they  should  be  home  by  eleven  o'clock,  the  hour  when  balls 
and  fetes  begin  to  be  lively.  Thus  their  pleasures,  which 
seemed  to  conform  very  fairly  to  their  father's  position,  were 
often  made  insipid  by  circumstances  which  were  part  of  the 
family  habits  and  principles. 

As  to  their  usual  life,  one  remark  will  sufficiently  paint 
it.  Madame  Gruillaume  required  her  daughters  to  be  dressed 
very  early  in  the  morning,  to  come  down  every  day  at  the 
same  hour,  and  she  ordered  their  employments  with  monastic 
regularity.  Augustine,  however,  had  been  gifted  by  chance 
with  a  spirit  lofty  enough  to  feel  the  emptiness  of  such  a 
life.  Her  blue  eyes  would  sometimes  be  raised  as  if  to  pierce 
the  depths  of  that  gloomy  staircase  and  those  damp  store- 
rooms. After  sounding  the  profound  cloistral  silence,  she 
seemed  to  be  listening  to  remote,  inarticulate  revelations  of 
the  life  of  passion,  which  accounts  feelings  as  of  higher  value 
than  things.  And  at  such  moments  her  cheek  would  flush, 
her  idle  hands  would  lay  the  muslin  sewing  on  the  polished 
oak  counter,  and  presently  her  mother  would  say,  in  a  voice 
of  which  even  the  softest  tones  were  sour,  "Augustine,  my 
treasure,  what  are  you  thinking  about?"  It  is  possible  that 
two  romances  discovered  by  Augustine  in  the  cupboard  of  a 
cook  Madame  Gruillaume  had  lately  discharged — "Hippolyte 
Comte  de  Douglas"  and  "Le  Comte  de  Comminges" — may 
have  contributed  to  develop  the  ideas  of  the  young  girl,  who 
had  devoured  them  in  secret,  during  the  long  nights  of  the 
past  winter. 

And  so  Augustine's  expression  of  vague  longing,  her 
gentle  voice,  her  jasmine  skin,  and  her  blue  eyes  had  lighted 
in  poor  Lebas'  soul  a  flame  as  ardent  as  it  was  reverent. 
From  an  easily  understood  caprice,  Augustine  felt  no  affec- 
tion for  the  orphan ;  perhaps  because  she  did  not  know  that 
he  loved  her.  On  the  other  hand,  the  senior  apprentice,  with 
his  long  legs,  his  chestnut  hair,  his  big  hands  and  powerful 


AT    THE   SIGN    OF   THE    CAT   AND    RACKET  41 

frame,  had  found  a  secret  admirer  in  Mademoiselle  Virginie, 
who,  in  spite  of  her  dower  of  fifty  thousand  crowns,  had  as 
yet  no  suitor.  Nothing  could  be  more  natural  than  these 
two  passions  at  cross-purposes,  born  in  the  silence  of  the 
dingy  shop,  as  violets  bloom  in  the  depths  of  a  wood.  The 
mute  and  constant  looks  which  made  the  young  people's  eyes 
meet  by  sheer  need  of  change  in  the  midst  of  persistent  work 
and  cloistered  peace,  was  sure,  sooner  or  later,  to  give  rise 
to  feelings  of  love.  The  habit  of  seeing  always  the  same 
face  leads  insensibly  to  our  reading  there  the  qualities  of  the 
soul,  and  at  last  effaces  all  its  defects. 

"At  the  pace  at  which  that  man  goes,  our  girls  will  soon 
have  to  go  on  their  knees  to  a  suitor!"  said  Monsieur  Guil- 
laume  to  himself,  as  he  read  the  first  decree  by  which  Napo- 
leon drew  in  advance  on  the  conscript  classes. 

From  that  day  the  old  merchant,  grieved  at  seeing  his 
elder  daughter  fade,  remembered  how  he  had  married  Ma- 
demoiselle Chevrel  under  much  the  same  circumstances  as 
those  of  Joseph  Lebas  and  Virginie.  A  good  bit  of  busi- 
ness, to  marry  off  his  daughter,  and  discharge  a  sacred  debt 
by  repaying  to  an  orphan  the  benefit  he  had  formerly  received 
from  his  predecessor  under  similar  conditions !  Joseph  Lebas, 
who  was  now  three-and-thirty,  was  aware  of  the  obstacle 
which  a  difference  of  fifteen  years  placed  between  Augustine 
and  himself.  Being  also  too  clearsighted  not  to  understand 
Monsieur  Guillaume's  purpose,  he  knew  his  inexorable  prin- 
ciples well  enough  to  feel  sure  that  the  second  would  never 
marry  before  the  elder.  So  the  hapless  assistant,  whose 
heart  was  as  warm  as  his  legs  were  long  and  his  chest  deep, 
suffered  in  silence. 

This  was  the  state  of  affairs  in  the  tiny  republic  which, 
in  the  heart  of  the  Eue  Saint-Denis,  was  not  unlike  a  de- 
pendency of  La  Trappe.  But  to  give  a  full  account  of  events 
as  well  as  of  feelings,  it  is  needful  to  go  back  to  some  months 
before  the  scene  with  which  this  story  opens.  At  dusk  one 
evening,  a  young  man  passing  the  darkened  shop  of  the  Cat 
and  Racket,  had  paused  for  a  moment  to  gaze  at  a  picture 


42  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

which  might  have  arrested  every  painter  in  the  world.  The 
shop  was  not  yet  lighted,  and  was  as  a  dark  cave  beyond 
which  the  dining-room  was  visible.  A  hanging  lamp  shed 
the  yellow  light  which  lends  such  charm  to  pictures  of  the 
Dutch  school.  The  white  linen,  the  silver,  the  cut-glass, 
were  brilliant  accessories,  and  made  more  picturesque  by 
strong  contrasts  of  light  and  shade.  The  figures  of  the  head 
of  the  family  and  his  wife,  the  faces  of  the  apprentices,  and 
the  pure  form  of  Augustine,  near  whom  a  fat  chubby- 
cheeked  maid  was  standing,  composed  so  strange  a  group; 
the  heads  were  so  singular,  and  every  face  had  so  candid  an 
expression;  it  was  so  easy  to  read  the  peace,  the  silence,  the 
modest  way  of  life  in  this  family,  that  to  an  artist  accustomed 
to  render  nature  there  was  something  hopeless  in  any  attempt 
to  depict  this  scene,  come  upon  by  chance.  The  stranger  was 
a  young  painter,  who,  seven  years  before,  had  gained  the  first 
prize  for  painting.  He  had  now  just  come  back  from  Eome. 
His  soul,  full-fed  with  poetry ;  his  eyes,  satiated  with  Rafael 
and  Michelangelo,  thirsted  for  real  nature  after  long  dwell- 
ing in  the  pompous  land  where  art  has  everywhere  left  some- 
thing grandiose.  Bight  or  wrong,  this  was  his  personal  feel- 
ing. His  heart,  which  had  long  been  a  prey  to  the  fire  of 
Italian  passion,  craved  one  of  those  modest  and  meditative 
maidens  whom  in  Rome  he  had  unfortunately  seen  only  in 
painting.  From  the  enthusiasm  produced  in  his  excited 
fancy  by  the  living  picture  before  him,  he  naturally  passed 
to  a  profound  admiration  for  the  principal  figure;  Augustine 
seemed  to  be  pensive,  and  did  not  eat;  by  the  arrangement 
of  the  lamp  the  light  fell  full  on  her  face,  and  her  bust  seemed 
to  move  in  a  circle  of  fire,  which  threw  up  the  shape  of  her 
head  and  illuminated  it  with  almost  supernatural  effect.  The 
artist  involuntarily  compared  her  to  an  exiled  angel  dreaming 
of  heaven.  An  almost  unknown  emotion,  a  limpid,  seething 
love  flooded  his  heart.  After  remaining  a  minute,  over- 
whelmed by  the  weight  of  his  ideas,  he  tore  himself  from  his 
bliss,  went  home,  ate  nothing,  and  could  not  sleep. 

The  next  day  he  went  to  his  studio,  and  did  not  come  out 


AT   THE   SIGN   OF    THE    CAT   AND    RACKET  43 

of  it  till  he  had  placed  on  canvas  the  magic  of  the  scene  of 
which  the  memory  had,  in  a  sense,  made  him  a  devotee;  his 
happiness  was  incomplete  till  he  should  possess  a  faithful 
portrait  of  his  idol.  He  went  many  times  past  the  house  of 
the  Cat  and  Racket;  he  even  ventured  in  once  or  twice, 
under  a  disguise,  to  get  a  closer  view  of  the  bewitching  crea- 
ture that  Madame  Guillaume  covered  with  her  wing.  For 
eight  whole  months,  devoted  to  his  love  and  to  his  brush, 
he  was  lost  to  the  sight  of  his  most  intimate  friends,  forget- 
ting the  world,  the  theatre,  poetry,  music,  and  all  his  dearest 
habits.  One  morning  Girodet  broke  through  all  the  barriers 
with  which  artists  are  familiar,  and  which  they  know  how  to 
evade,  went  into  his  room,  and  woke  him  by  asking,  "What 
are  you  going  to  send  to  the  Salon?"  The  artist  grasped  his 
friend's  hand,  dragged  him  off  to  the  studio,  uncovered  a 
small  easel  picture  and  a  portrait.  After  a  long  and  eager 
study  of  the  two  masterpieces,  Girodet  threw  himself  on  his 
comrade's  neck  and  hugged  him,  without  speaking  a  word. 
His  feelings  could  only  be  expressed  as  he  felt  them — soul 
to  soul. 

1 '  You  are  in  love  ? ' '  said  Girodet. 

They  both  knew  that  the  finest  portraits  by  Titian,  Rafael, 
and  Lionardo  da  Vinci,  were  the  outcome  of  the  enthusiastic 
sentiments  by  which,  indeed,  under  various  conditions,  every 
masterpiece  is  engendered.  The  artist  only  bent  his  head  in 
reply. 

' '  How  happy  are  you  to  be  able  to  be  in  love,  here,  after 
coming  back  from  Italy!  But  I  do  not  advise  you  to  send 
such  works  as  these  to  the  Salon,"  the  great  painter  went 
on.  "You  see,  these  two  works  will  not  be  appreciated. 
Such  true  coloring,  such  prodigious  work,  cannot  yet  be 
understood;  the  public  is  not  accustomed  to  such  depths. 
The  pictures  we  paint,  my  dear  fellow,  are  mere  screens. 
We  should  do  better  to  turn  rhymes,  and  translate  the  an- 
tique poets!  There  is  more  glory  to  be  looked  for  there 
than  from  our  luckless  canvases!" 

Notwithstanding  this  charitable  advice,  the  two  pictures 


44  BALZAC'S    \VORKS 

were  exhibited.  The 4 ' Interior' '  made  a  revolution  in  painting. 
It  gave  birth  to  the  pictures  of  genre  which  pour  into  all  our 
exhibitions  in  such  prodigious  quantity  that  they  might  be 
supposed  to  be  produced  by  machinery.  As  to  the  portrait, 
few  artists  have  forgotten  that  lifelike  work;  and  the  public, 
which  as  a  body  is  sometimes  discerning,  awarded  it  the 
crown  which  Girodet  himself  had  hung  over  it.  The  two 
pictures  were  surrounded  by  a  vast  throng.  They  fought 
for  places,  as  women  say.  Speculators  and  moneyed  men 
would  have  covered  the  canvas  with  double  Napoleons,  but 
the  artist  obstinately  refused  to  sell  or  to  make  replicas.  An 
enormous  sum  was  offered  him  for  the  right  of  engraving 
them,  and  the  print-sellers  were  not  more  favored  than  the 
amateurs. 

Though  these  incidents  occupied  the  world,  they  were 
not  of  a  nature  to  penetrate  the  recesses  of  the  monastic  soli- 
tude in  the  Rue  Saint-Denis.  However,  when  paying  a  visit 
to  Madame  Guillaume,  the  notary's  wife  spoke  of  the  exhi- 
bition before  Augustine,  of  whom  she  was  very  fond,  and 
explained  its  purpose.  Madame  Roquin's  gossip  naturally 
inspired  Augustine  with  a  wish  to  see  the  pictures,  and  with 
courage  enough  to  ask  her  cousin  secretly  to  take  her  to  the 
Louvre.  Her  cousin  succeeded  in  the  negotiations  she  opened 
with  Madame  Guillaume  for  permission  to  release  the  young 
girl  for  two  hours  from  her  dull  labors.  Augustine  was  thus 
able  to  make  her  way  through  the  crowd  to  see  the  crowned 
work.  A  fit  of  trembling  shook  her  like  an  aspen  leaf  as  she 
recognized  herself.  She  was  terrified,  and  looked  about  her 
to  find  Madame  Roquin,  from  whom  she  had  been  separated 
by  a  tide  of  people.  At  that  moment  her  frightened  eyes 
fell  on  the  impassioned  face  of  the  young  painter.  She  at 
once  recalled  the  figure  of  a  loiterer  whom,  being  curious, 
she  had  frequently  observed,  believing  him  to  be  a  new 
neighbor. 

"You  see  how  love  has  inspired  me,"  said  the  artist  in 
the  timid  creature's  ear.  and  she  stood  in  dismay  at  the  words 

She  found  supernatural  courage  to  enable  her  to  push 


AT   THE   SIGN   OF    THE   CAT   AND    RACKET  45 

through  the  crowd  and  join  her  cousin,  who  was  still  strug- 
gling with  the  mass  of  people  that  hindered  her  from  getting 
to  the  picture. 

"You  will  be  stifled!"  cried  Augustine.  "Let  us  go." 
But  there  are  moments,  at  the  Salon,  when  two  women 
are  not  always  free  to  direct  their  steps  through  the  galleries. 
By  the  irregular  course  to  which  they  were  compelled  by  the 
press,  Mademoiselle  Guillaume  and  her  cousin  were  pushed 
to  within  a  few  steps  of  the  second  picture.  Chance  thus 
brought  them,  both  together,  to  where  they  could  easily  see 
the  canvas  made  famous  by  fashion,  for  once  in  agreement 
with  talent.  Madame  Koquin's  exclamation  of  surprise  was 
lost  in  the  hubbub  and  buzz  of  the  crowd;  Augustine  invol- 
untarily shed  tears  at  the  sight  of  this  wonderful  study. 
Then,  by  an  almost  unaccountable  impulse,  she  laid  her 
finger  on  her  lips,  as  she  perceived  quite  near  her  the  ecstatic 
face  of  the  young  painter.  The  stranger  replied  by  a  nod, 
and  pointed  to  Madame  Roquin,  as  a  spoil-sport,  to  show 
Augustine  that  he  had  understood.  This  pantomime  struck 
the  young  girl  like  hot  coals  on  her  flesh;  she  felt  quite 
guilty  as  she  perceived  that  there  was  a  compact  between 
herself  and  the  artist.  The  suffocating  heat,  the  dazzling 
sight  of  beautiful  dresses,  the  bewilderment  produced  in 
Augustine's  brain  by  the  truth  of  coloring,  the  multitude 
of  living  or  painted  figures,  the  profusion  of  gilt  frames, 
gave  her  a  sense  of  intoxication  which  doubled  her  alarms. 
She  would  perhaps  have  fainted  if  an  unknown  rapture  had 
not  surged  up  in  her  heart  to  vivify  her  whole  being,  in  spite 
of  this  chaos  of  sensations.  She  nevertheless  believed  her- 
self to  be  under  the  power  of  the  Devil,  of  whose  awful  snares 
she  had  been  warned  by  the  thundering  words  of  preachers. 
This  moment  was  to  her  like  a  moment  of  madness.  She 
found  herself  accompanied  to  her  cousin's  carriage  by  the 
young  man,  radiant  with  joy  and  love.  Augustine,  a  prey 
to  an  agitation  new  to  her  experience,  an  intoxication  which 
seemed  to  abandon  her  to  nature,  listened  to  the  eloquent 
voice  of  her  heart,  and  looked  again  and  again  at  the  young 


46  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

painter,  betraying  the  emotion  that  came  over  her.  Never 
had  the  bright  rose  of  her  cheeks  shown  in  stronger  contrast 
with  the  whiteness  of  her  skin.  The  artist  saw  her  beauty 
in  all  its  bloom,  her  maiden  modesty  in  all  its  glory.  She 
herself  felt  a  sort  of  rapture  mingled  with  terror  at  thinking 
that  her  presence  had  brought  happiness  to  him  whose  name 
was  on  every  lip,  and  whose  talent  lent  immortality  to  tran- 
sient scenes.  She  was  loved!  It  was  impossible  to  doubt  it. 
When  she  no  longer  saw  the  artist,  these  simple  words  still 
echoed  in  her  ear,  "You  see  how  love  has  inspired  me!" 
And  the  throbs  of  her  heart,  as  they  grew  deeper,  seemed 
a  pain,  her  heated  blood  revealed  so  many  unknown  forces 
in  her  being.  She  affected  a  severe  headache  to  avoid  reply- 
ing to  her  cousin's  questions  concerning  the  pictures;  but  on 
their  return  Madame  Roquin  could  not  forbear  from  speak- 
ing to  Madame  Guillaume  of  the  fame  that  had  fallen  on  the 
house  of  the  Cat  and  Racket,  and  Augustine  quaked  in  every 
limb  as  she  heard  her  mother  say  that  she  should  go  to  the 
Salon  to  see  her  house  there.  The  young  girl  again  declared 
herself  suffering,  and  obtained  leave  to  go  to  bed. 

"That  is  what  comes  of  sight-seeing,"  exclaimed  Mon- 
sieur Guillaume — "a  headache.  And  is  it  so  very  amusing 
to  see  in  a  picture  what  you  can  see  any  day  in  your  own 
street?  Don't  talk  to  me  of  your  artists!  Like  writers,  they 
are  a  starveling  crew.  Why  the  devil  need  they  choose  my 
house  to  flout  it  in  their  pictures  ? ' ' 

"It  may  help  to  sell  a  few  ells  more  of  cloth,"  said  Joseph 
Lebas. 

This  remark  did  not  protect  art  and  thought  from  being 
condemned  once  again  before  the  judgment-seat  of  trade. 
As  may  be  supposed,  these  speeches  did  not  infuse  much 
hope  into  Augustine,  who,  during  the  night,  gave  herself 
up  to  the  first  meditations  of  love.  The  events  of  the  day 
were  like  a  dream,  which  it  was  joy  to  recall  to  her  mind. 
She  was  initiated  into  the  fears,  the  hopes,  the  remorse,  all 
the  ebb  and  flow  of  feeling  which  could  not  fail  to  toss  a 
heart  so  simple  and  so  timid  as  hers.  What  a  void  she  per- 


AT   THE   SIGN  OF   THE   CAT  AND    RACKET  47 

ceived  in  this  gloomy  house!  What  a  treasure  she  found 
in  her  soul!  To  be  the  wife  of  a  genius,  to  share  his  glory! 
What  ravages  must  such  a  vision  make  in  the  heart  of  a  girl 
brought  up  among  such  a  family!  What  hopes  must  it  raise 
in  a  young  creature  who,  in  the  midst  of  sordid  elements, 
had  pined  for  a  life  of  elegance!  A  sunbeam  had  fallen  into 
the  prison.  Augustine  was  suddenly  in  love.  So  many  of 
her  feelings  were  soothed  that  she  succumbed  without  reflec- 
tion. At  eighteen  does  not  love  hold  a  prism  between  the 
world  and  the  eyes  of  a  young  girl?  She  was  incapable  of 
suspecting  the  hard  facts  which  result  from  the  union  of  a 
loving  woman  with  a  man  of  imagination,  and  she  believed 
herself  called  to  make  him  happy,  not  seeing  any  disparity 
between  herself  and  him.  To  her  the  futur  •  would  be  as  the 
present.  When,  next  day,  her  father  and  mother  returned 
from  the  Salon,  their  dejected  faces  proclaimed  some  dis- 
appointment. In  the  first  place,  the  painter  had  removed 
the  two  pictures;  and  then  Madame  Gruillaume  had  lost  her 
cashmere  shawl.  But  the  news  that  the  pictures  had  disap- 
peared from  the  walls  since  her  visit  revealed  to  Augustine 
a  delicacy  of  sentiment  which  a  woman  can  always  appreciate, 
even  by  instinct. 

On  the  morning  when,  on  his  way  home  from  a  ball, 
Theodore  de  Sommervieux — for  this  was  the  name  which 
fame  had  stamped  on  Augustine's  heart — had  been  squirted 
on  by  the  apprentices  while  awaiting  the  appearance  of  his 
artless  little  friend,  who  certainly  did  not  know  that  he  was 
there,  the  lovers  had  seen  each  other  for  the  fourth  time 
only  since  their  meeting  at  the  Salon.  The  difficulties 
which  the  rule  of  the  house  placed  in  the  way  of  the 
painter's  ardent  nature  gave  added  violence  to  his  passion 
for  Augustine. 

How  could  he  get  near  to  a  young  girl  seated  in  a  count- 
ing-house between  two  such  women  as  Mademoiselle  Virginie 
and  Madame  Guillaume?  How  could  he  correspond  with 
her  when  her  mother  never  left  her  side?  Ingenious,  as 
lovers  are,  to  imagine  woes,  Theodore  saw  a  rival  in  one 


48  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

of  the  assistants,  to  whose  interests  he  supposed  the  others 
to  be  devoted.  If  he  should  evade  these  sons  of  Argus,  he 
would  yet  be  wrecked  under  the  stern  eyes  of  the  old  draper 
or  of  Madame  Guillaume.  The  very  vehemence  of  his  pas- 
sion hindered  the  young  painter  from  hitting  on  the  ingenious 
expedients  which,  in  prisoners  and  in  lovers,  seem  to  be  the 
last  effort  of  intelligence  spurred  by  a  wild  craving  for  lib- 
erty, or  by  the  fire  of  love.  Theodore  wandered  about  the 
neighborhood  with  the  restlessness  of  a  madman,  as  though 
movement  might  inspire  him  with  some  device.  After  rack- 
ing his  imagination,  it  occurred  to  him  to  bribe  the  blow7v 
waiting-maid  with  gold.  Thus  a  few  notes  were  exchanged 
at  long  intervals  during  the  fortnight  following  the  ill-starred 
morning  when  Monsieur  Guillaume  and  Theodore  had  so 
scrutinized  one  another.  At  the  present  moment  the  young 
couple  had  agreed  to  see  each  other  at  a  certain  hour  of  the 
day,  and  on  Sunday,  at  Saint-Leu,  during  mass  and  vespers. 
Augustine  had  sent  her  dear  Theodore  a  list  of  the  relations 
and  friends  of  the  family,  to  whom  the  young  painter  tried 
to  get  access,  in  the  hope  of  interesting,  if  it  were  possible, 
in  his  love  affairs,  one  of  these  souls  absorbed  in  money  and 
trade,  to  whom  a  genuine  passion  must  appear  a  quite  mon- 
strous speculation,  a  thing  unheard-of.  Nothing,  meanwhile, 
was  altered  at  the  sign  of  the  Cat  and  Racket.  If  Augustine 
was  absent-minded,  if,  against  all  obedience  to  the  domestic 
code,  she  stole  up  to  her  room  to  make  signals  by  means  of 
a  jar  of  flowers,  if  she  sighed,  if  she  were  lost  in  thought,  no 
one  observed  it,  not  even  her  mother.  This  will  cause  some 
surprise  to  those  who  have  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the 
household,  where  an  idea  tainted  with  poetry  would  be  in 
startling  contrast  to  persons  and  things,  where  no  one  could 
venture  on  a  gesture  or  a  look  which  would  not  be  seen  and 
analyzed.  Nothing,  however,  could  be  more  natural:  the 
quiet  bark  that  navigated  the  stormy  waters  of  the  Paris 
Exchange,  under  the  flag  of  the  Cat  and  Backet,  was  just 
now  in  the  toils  of  one  of  these  tempests  which,  returning 
periodically,  might  be  termed  equinoctial.  For  the  last  fort- 


AT   THE   SIGN  OF   THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  49 

night  the  five  men  forming  the  crew,  with  Madame  Guil- 
laume  and  Mademoiselle  Virginie,  had  been  devoting  them- 
selves to  the  hard  labor  known  as  stock-taking. 

Every  bale  was  turned  over,  and  the  length  verified  to 
ascertain  the  exact  value  of  the  remnant.  The  ticket  at- 
tached to  each  parcel  was  carefully  examined  to  see  at  what 
time  the  piece  had  been  bought.  The  retail  price  was  fixed. 
Monsieur  Guillaume,  always  on  his  feet,  his  pen  behind  his 
ear,  was  like  a  captain  commanding  the  working  of  the  ship. 
His  sharp  tones,  spoken  through  a  trap-door,  to  inquire  into 
tjie  depths  of  the  hold  in  the  cellar-store,  gave  utterance  to 
the  barbarous  formulas  of  trade-jargon,  which  find  expres- 
sion only  in  cipher.  "How  much  H.N.Z.?"— "All  sold." 
"What  is  left  of  Q.X.?"—"  Two.  ells.  "—"At  what  price?" 
—"Fifty-five  three."— "Set  down  A.  at  three,  with  all  of 
J.J.,  all  of  M.P.,  and  what  is  left  of  V.D.O."— A  hundred 
other  injunctions  equally  intelligible  were  spouted  over  the 
counters  like  verses  of  modern  poetry,  quoted  by  romantic 
spirits,  to  excite  each  other's  enthusiasm  for  one  of  their 
poets.  In  the  evening  Guillaume,  shut  up  with  his  assist- 
ant and  his  wife,  balanced  his  accounts,  carried  on  the  bal- 
ance, wrote  to  debtors  in  arrears,  and  made  out  bills.  All 
three  were  busy  over  this  enormous  labor  of  which  the  re- 
sult could  be  stated  on  a  sheet  of  foolscap,  proving  to  the 
head  of  the  house  that  there  was  so  much  to  the  good  in 
hard  cash,  so  much  in  goods,  so  much  in  bills  and  notes; 
that  he  did  not  owe  a  sou;  that  a  hundred  or  two  hundred 
thousand  francs  were  owing  to  him;  that  the  capital  had 
been  increased;  that  the  farmlands,  the  houses,  or  the  in- 
vestments were  extended,  or  repaired,  or  doubled.  Whence 
it  became  necessary  to  begin  again  with  increased  ardor,  to 
accumulate  more  crown-pieces,  without  its  ever  entering  the 
brain  of  these  laborious  ants  to  ask — "To  what  end?" 

Favored  by  this  annual  turmoil,  the  happy  Augustine 
escaped  the  investigations  of  her  Argus-eyed  relations. 
At  last,  one  Saturday  evening,  the  stock-taking  was  fin- 
ished. The  figures  of  the  sum-total  showed  a  row  of  O'a 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC  3. 


60  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

long  enough  to  allow  Guillaume  for  once  to  relax  the  stern 
rule  as  to  dessert  which  reigned  throughout  the  year.  The 
shrewd  old  draper  rubbed  his  hands,  and  allowed  his  as- 
sistants to  remain  at  table.  The  members  of  the  crew  had 
hardly  swallowed  their  thimbleful  of  some  home-made 
liqueur,  when  the  rumble  of  a  carriage  was  heard.  The 
family  party  were  going  to  see  "Cendrillon"  at  the  Varietes, 
while  the  two  younger  apprentices  each  received  a  crown  of 
six  francs,  with  permission  to  go  wherever  they  chose,  pro- 
vided they  were  in  by  midnight. 

Notwithstanding  this  debauch,  the  old  cloth-merchant 
was  shaving  himself  at  six  next  morning,  put  on  his  maroon- 
colored  coat,  of  which  the  glowing  lights  afforded  him  per- 
ennial enjoyment,  fastened  a  pair  of  gold  buckles  on  the 
knee-straps  of  his  ample  satin  breeches;  and  then,  at 
about  seven  o'clock,  while  all  were  still  sleeping  in  the 
house,  he  made  his  way  to  the  little  office  adjoining 
the  shop  on  the  first  floor.  Daylight  came  in  through  a 
window,  fortified  by  iron  bars,  and  looking  out  on  a  small 
yard  surrounded  by  such  black  walls  that  it  was  very  like 
a  well.  The  old  merchant  opened  the  iron-lined  shutters, 
which  were  so  familiar  to  him,  and  threw  up  the  lower  half 
of  the  sash  window.  The  icy  air  of  the  courtyard  came  in 
to  cool  the  hot  atmosphere  of  the  little  room,  full  of  the 
odor  peculiar  to  offices. 

The  merchant  remained  standing,  his  hand  resting  on 
the  greasy  arm  of  a  large  cane  chair  lined  with  morocco,  of 
which  the  original  hue  had  disappeared ;  he  seemed  to  hesi- 
tate as  to  seating  himself.  He  looked  with  affection  at  the 
double  desk,  where  his  wife's  seat,  opposite  his  own,  was 
fitted  into  a  little  niche  in  the  wall.  He  contemplated  the 
numbered  boxes,  the  files,  the  implements,  the  cash-box — 
objects  all  of  immemorial  origin,  and  fancied  himself  in  the 
room  with  the  shade  of  Master  Chevrel.  He  even  pulled 
out  the  high  stool  on  which  he  had  once  sat  in  the  presence 
of  his  departed  master.  This  stool,  covered  with  black 
leather,  the  horse-hair  showing  at  every  corner — as  it  had 


M.    GUILLAUME 
Kalzac,  vol.  one — At  the  Sign  of  the  Cat  and  Racket 


AT   THE   SIGN  OF   THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  51 

long  done,  without,  however,  coming  out — he  placed  with  a 
shaking  hand  on  the  very  spot  where  his  predecessor  had 
put  it,  and  then,  with  an  emotion  difficult  to  describe,  he 
pulled  a  bell,  which  rang  at  the  head  of  Joseph  Lebas'  bed. 
When  this  decisive  blow  had  been  struck,  the  old  man,  for 
whom,  no  doubt,  these  reminiscences  were  too  much,  took 
up  three  or  four  bills  of  exchange,  and  looked  at  them  with- 
out seeing  them. 

Suddenly  Joseph  Lebas  stood  before  him. 

"Sit  down  there,"  said  Guillaume,  pointing  to  the  stool. 

As  the  old  master  draper  had  never  yet  bid  his  assistant 
be  seated  in  his  presence,  Joseph  Lebas  was  startled. 

"What  do  you  think  of  these  notes?"  asked  Guillaume. 

"They  will  never  be  paid." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  I  heard  that  the  day  before  yesterday  Btienne  and 
Co.  had  made  their  payments  in  gold." 

"Oh,  oh!"  said  the  draper.  "Well,  one  must  be  very  ill 
to  show  one's  bile.  Let  us  speak  of  something  else. — Joseph, 
the  stock-taking  is  done." 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  and  the  dividend  is  one  of  the  best  you 
have  ever  made." 

"Do  not  use  new-fangled  words.  Say  the  profits,  Joseph. 
Do  you  know,  my  boy,  that  this  result  is  partly  owing  to, 
you  ?  And  I  do  not  intend  to  pay  you  a  salary  any  longer. 
Madame  Guillaume  has  suggested  to  me  to  take  you  into 
partnership. — 'Guillaume  and  Lebas';  will  not  that  make  a 
good  business  name?  We  might  add,  'and  Co.'  to  round 
oil'  the  firm's  signature." 

Tears  rose  to  the  eyes  of  Joseph  Lebas,  who  tried  to  hide 
them. 

"Oh,  Monsieur  Guillaume,  how  have  I  deserved  such 
kindness?  I  only  do  my  duty.  It  was  so  much  already 
that  you  should  take  an  interest  in  a  poor  orph — " 

He  was  brushing  the  cuff  of  his  left  sleeve  with  his  right 
hand,  and  dared  not  look  at  the  old  man,  who  smiled  as  he 
tii ought  that  this  modest  young  fellow  no  doubt  needed,  as 


52  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

he  had  needed  once  on  a  time,  some  encouragement  to  com- 
plete his  explanation. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Virginie's  father,  "you  do  not  alto- 
gether deserve  this  favor,  Joseph.  You  have  not  so  much 
confidence  in  me  as  I  have  in  you.  (The  young  man  looked 
up  quickly.)  You  know  all  the  secrets  of  the  cash- box. 
For  the  last  two  years  I  have  told  you  of  almost  all  my 
concerns.  I  have  sent  you  to  travel  in  our  goods.  In 
short,  I  have  nothing  on  my  conscience  as  regards  you. 
But  you — you  have  a  soft  place,  and  you  have  never 
breathed  a  word  of  it."  Joseph  Lebas  blushed.  "Ah, 
ha!"  cried  Guillaume,  "so  you  thought  you  could  deceive 
an  old  fox  like  me  ?  When  you  knew  that  I  had  scented 
the  Lecocq  bankruptcy?" 

"What,  Monsieur?"  replied  Joseph  Lebas,  looking  at 
his  master  as  keenly  as  his  master  looked  at  him,  "you 
knew  that  I  was  in  love  ? ' ' 

"I  know  everything,  you  rascal,"  said  the  worthy  and 
cunning  old  merchant,  pulling  the  assistant's  ear.  "And 
I  forgive  you — I  did  the  same  myself." 

"And  you  will  give  her  to  me?" 

"Yes — with  fifty  thousand  crowns;  and  I  will  leave  you 
as  much  by  will,  and  we  will  start  on  our  new  career  under 
the  name  of  a  new  firm.  We  will  do  good  business  yet, 
my  boy!"  added  the  old  man,  getting  up  and  flourishing 
his  arms.  "I  tell  you,  son-in-law,  there  is  nothing  like 
trade.  Those  who  ask  what  pleasure  is  to  be  found  in  it 
are  simpletons.  To  be  on  the  scent  of  a  good  bargain,  to 
hold  your  own  on  'Change,  to  watch  as  anxiously  as  at  the 
gaming  table  whether  Etienne  and  Co.  will  fail  or  no,  to 
see  a  regiment  of  Guards  march  past  all  dressed  in  your 
cloth,  to  trip  your  neighbor  up — honestly  of  course! — to 
make  the  goods  cheaper  than  others  can;  then  to  carry  out 
an  undertaking  which  you  'have  planned,  which  begins, 
grows,  totters,  and  succeeds!  to  know  the  workings  of 
every  house  of  business  as  well  as  a  minister  of  police,  so 
as  never  to  make  a  mistake;  to  hold  up  your  head  in  the 


AT    THE   SIGN    OF    THE   CAT   AND    RACKET  53 

midst  of  wrecks,  to  have  friends  by  correspondence  in  every 
manufacturing  town;  is  not  that  a  perpetual  game,  Joseph? 
That  is  life,  that  is!  I  shall  die  in  that  harness,  like  old 
Chevrel,  but  taking  it  easy  now,  all  the  same." 

In  the  heat  of  his  eager  rhetoric,  old  Guillaume  had 
scarcely  looked  at  his  assistant,  who  was  weeping  copi- 
ously. "Why,  Joseph,  my  poor  boy,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  I  love  her  so!  Monsieur  Guillaume,  that  my  heart 
fails  me;  I  believe — " 

""Well,  well,  boy,"  said  the  old  man,  touched,  "you  are 
happier  than  you  know,  by  Gad!  For  she  loves  you.  I 
know  it." 

And  he  blinked  his  little  green  eyes  as  he  looked  at 
the  young  man. 

"Mademoiselle  Augustine!  Mademoiselle  Augustine!" 
exclaimed  Joseph  Lebas  in  his  rapture. 

He  was  about  to  rush  out  of  the  room  when  he  felt  him- 
self clutched  by  a  hand  of  iron,  and  his  astonished  master 
spun  him  round  in  front  of  him  once  more. 

"What  has  Augustine  to  do  with  this  matter  ?"  he  asked, 
in  a  voice  which  instantly  froze  the  luckless  Joseph. 

"Is  it  not  she  that — that — I  love?"  stammered  the  as- 
sistant. 

Much  put  out  by  his  own  want  of  perspicacity,  Guil- 
laume sat  down  again,  and  rested  his  long  head  in  his 
hands  to  consider  the  perplexing  situation  in  which  he 
found  himself.  Joseph  Lebas,  shamefaced  and  in  de- 
spair, remained  standing. 

"Joseph,"  the  draper  said  with  frigid  dignity,  "I  was 
speaking  of  Virginie.  Love  cannot  be  made  to  order,  I 
know.  I  know,  too,  that  you  can  be  trusted.  We  will 
forget  all  this.  I  will  not  let  Augustine  marry  before 
Virginie. — Your  interest  will  be  ten  per  cent." 

The  young  man,  to  whom  love  gave  I  know  not  what 
power  of  courage  and  eloquence,  clasped  his  hand,  and 
spoke  in  his  turn — spoke  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  with  so 
much  warmth  and  feeling  that  he  altered  the  situation.  If 


54  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

the  question  had  been  a  matter  of  business,  the  old  trades- 
man would  have  had  fixed  principles  to  guide  his  decision; 
but,  tossed  a  thousand  miles  from  commerce,  on  the  ocean 
of  sentiment,  without  a  compass,  he  floated,  as  he  told  him- 
self, undecided  in  the  face  of  such  an  unexpected  event. 
Carried  away  by  his  fatherly  kindness,  he  began  to  beat 
about  the  bush. 

"Deuce  take  it,  Joseph,  you  must  know  that  there  are 
ten  years  between  my  two  children.  Mademoiselle  Chevrel 
was  no  beauty,  still  she  has  had  nothing  to  complain  of  in 
me.  Do  as  I  did.  Come,  come,  don't  cry.  Can  you  be  so 
silly  ?  What  is  to  be  done  ?  It  can  be  managed  perhaps. 
There  is  always  some  way  out  of  a  scrape.  And  we  men  are 
not  always  devoted  Celadons  to  our  wives — you  understand? 
Madame  Guillaume  is  very  pious.  .  .  .  Come.  By  Gad. 
boy,  give  your 'arm  to  Augustine  this  morning  as  we  go  to 
mass. ' ' 

These  were  the  phrases  spoken  at  random  by  the  old 
draper,  and  their  conclusion  made  the  lover  happy.  He 
was  already  thinking  of  a  friend  of  his  as  a  match  for 
Mademoiselle  Yirginie,  as  he  went  out  of  the  smoky  office, 
pressing  his  future  father-in-law's  hand,  after  saying  with  a 
knowing  look  that  all  would  turn  out  for  the  best. 

"What  will  Madame  Guillaume  say  to  it?"  was  the  idea 
that  greatly  troubled  the  worthy  merchant  when  he  found 
hiuiself  alone. 

At  breakfast  Madame  Guillaume  and  Virginie,  to  whom 
the  draper  had  not  as  yet  confided  his  disappointment,  cast 
meaning  glances  at  Joseph  Lebas,  who  was  extremely  em- 
barrassed. The  young  assistant's  bashfulness  commended 
him  to  his  mother-in-law's  good  graces.  The  matron  be- 
came so  cheerful  that  she  smiled  as  she  looked  at  her  hus- 
band, and  allowed  herself  some  little  pleasantries  of  time- 
honored  acceptance  in  such  simple  families.  She  wondered 
whether  Joseph  or  Virginie  were  the  taller,  to  ask  them  to 
compare  their  height.  This  preliminary  fooling  brought  a 
cloud  to  the  master's  brow,  and  he  even  made  such  a  point 


AT   THE   SIGN  OF   THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  55 

of  decorum  that  he  desired  Augustine  to  take  the  assistant's 
arm  on  their  way  to  Saint-Leu.  Madame  Guillaume,  sur- 
prised at  this  manly  delicacy,  honored  her  husband  with  a 
nod  of  approval.  So  the  procession  left  the  house  in  such 
order  as  to  suggest  no  suspicious  meaning  to  the  neighbors. 

"Does  it  not  seem  to  you,  Mademoiselle  Augustine," 
said  the  assistant,  and  he  trembled,  "that  the  wife  of  a 
merchant  whose  credit  is  as  good  as  Monsieur  Guillaume's, 
for  instance,  might  enjoy  herself  a  little  more  than  Madame 
your  mother  does?  Might  wear  diamonds — or  keep  a  car- 
riage ?  For  my  part,  if  I  were  to  marry,  I  should  be  glad 
to  take  all  the  work,  and  see  my  wife  happy.  I  would  not 
put  her  into  the  counting-house.  In  the  drapery  business, 
you  see,  a  woman  is  not  so  necessary  now  as  formerly. 
Monsieur  Guillaume  was  quite  right  to  act  as  he  did — and 
besides,  his  wife  liked  it.  But  so  long  as  a  woman  knows 
how  to  turn  her  hand  to  the  book-keeping,  the  correspond- 
ence, the  retail  business,  the  orders,  and  her  housekeeping, 
so  as  not  to  sit  idle,  that  is  enough.  At  seven  o'clock, 
when  the  shop  is  shut,  I  shall  take  my  pleasures,  go  to 
the  play,  and  into  company. — But  you  are  not  listening 
to  me." 

"Yes,  indeed,  Monsieur  Joseph.  What  do  you  think  of 
painting?  That  is  a  fine  calling." 

"Yes.  I  know  a  master  house-painter,  Monsieur  Lour- 
dois.  He  is  well-to-do. " 

Thus  conversing,  the  family  reached  the  Church  of  Saint- 
Leu.  There  Madame  Guillaume  reasserted  her  rights,  and, 
for  the  first  time,  placed  Augustine  next  to  herself,  Virginie 
taking  her  place  on  the  fourth  chair,  next  to  Lebas.  During 
the  sermon  all  went  well  between  Augustine  and  Theodore, 
who,  standing  behind  a  pillar,  worshipped  his  Madonna  with 
fervent  devotion ;  but  at  the  elevation  of  the  Host,  Madame 
Guillaume  discovered,  rather  late,  that  her  daughter  Augus- 
tine was  holding  her  prayer-book  upside  down.  She  was 
about  to  speak  to  her  strongly,  when,  lowering  her  veil,  she 
interrupted  her  own  devotions  to  look  in  the  direction  where 


56  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

her  daughter's  eyes  found  attraction.  By  the  help  of  her 
spectacles  she  saw  the  young  artist,  whose  fashionable  ele- 
gance seemed  to  proclaim  him  a  cavalry  officer  on  leave  rather 
than  a  tradesman  of  the  neighborhood.  It  is  difficult  to  con- 
ceive of  the  state  of  violent  agitation  in  which  Madame  Guil- 
laume found  herself — she,  who  flattered  herself  on  having 
brought  up  her  daughters  to  perfection — on  discovering  in 
Augustine  a  clandestine  passion  of  which  her  prudery  and 
ignorance  exaggerated  the  perils.  She  believed  her  daugh- 
ter to  be  cankered  to  the  core. 

"Hold  your  book  right  way  up,  Miss,"  she  muttered  in 
a  low  voice,  tremulous  with  wrath.  She  snatched  away  the 
tell-tale  prayer-book  and  returned  it  with  the  letter-press 
right  way  up.  "Do  not  allow  your  eyes  to  look  anywhere 
bat  at  your  prayers,"  she  added,  "or  I  shall  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  you.  Your  father  and  I  will  talk  to  you 
after  church." 

These  words  came  like  a  thunderbolt  on  poor  Augustine. 
She  felt  faint;  but,  torn  between  the  distress  she  felt  and  the 
dread  of  causing  a  commotion  in  church,  she  bravely  con- 
cealed her  anguish.  It  was,  however,  easy  to  discern  the 
stormy  state  of  her  soul  from  the  trembling  of  her  prayer- 
book,  and  the  tears  which  dropped  on  every  page  she  turned. 
From  the  furious  glare  shot  at  him  by  Madame  Guillaume 
the  artist  saw  the  peril  into  which  his  love  affair  had  fallen; 
he  went  out,  with  a  raging  soul,  determined  to  venture  all. 

"Go  to  your  room,  Miss!"  said  Madame  Guillaume,  on 
their  return  home;  "we  will  send  for  you,  but  take  care  not 
to  quit  it. ' ' 

The  conference  between  the  husband  and  wife  was  con- 
ducted so  secretly  that  at  first  nothing  was  heard  of  it.  Vir- 
ginie,  however,  who  had  tried  to  give  her  sister  courage  by 
a  variety  of  gentle  remonstrances,  carried  her  good  nature 
so  far  as  to  listen  at  the  door  of  her  mother's  bedroom  where 
the  discussion  was  held,  to  catch  a  word  or  two.  The  first 
time  she  went  down  to  the  lower  floor  she  heard  her  father  ex- 
claim, "Then,  madam'e,  do  you  wish  to  kill  your  daughter?" 


AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE    CAT  AND   RACKET  57 

"My  poor  dear!"  said  Virginie,  in  tears,  "papa  takes 
your  part." 

"And  what  do  they  want  to  do  to  Theodore  ?"  asked  the 
innocent  girl. 

Virginie,  inquisitive,  went  down  again;  but  this  time  she 
stayed  longer;  she  learned  that  Joseph  Lebas  loved  Augus- 
tine. It  was  written  that  on  this  memorable  day,  this  house, 
generally  so  peaceful,  should  be  a  hell.  Monsieur  Guillaume 
brought  Joseph  Lebas  to  despair  by  telling  him  of  Augustine's 
love  for  a  stranger.  Lebas,  who  had  advised  his  friend  to 
become  a  suitor  for  Mademoiselle  Yirginie,  saw  all  his  hopes 
wrecked.  Mademoiselle  Yirginie,  overcome  by  hearing  that 
Joseph  had,  in  a  way,  refused  her,  had  a  sick  headache.  The 
dispute  that  had  arisen  from  the  discussion  between  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Guillaume,  when,  for  the  third  time  in  their 
lives,  they  had  been  of  antagonistic  opinions,  had  shown 
itself  in  a  terrible  form.  Finally,  at  half -past  four  in  the 
afternoon,  Augustine,  pale,  trembling,  and  with  red  eyes, 
was  haled  before  her  'father  and  mother.  The  poor  child 
artlessly  related  the  too  brief  tale  of  her  love.  Reassured 
by  a  speech  from  her  father,  who  promised  to  listen  to  her 
in  silence,  she  gathered  courage  as  she  pronounced  to  her 
parents  the  name  of  Theodore  de  Sommervieux,  with  a  mis- 
chievous little  emphasis  on  the  aristocratic  de.  And  yielding 
to  the  unknown  charm  of  talking  of  her  feelings,  she  was 
brave  enough  to  declare  with  innocent  decision  that  she  loved 
Monsieur  de  Sommervieux,  that  she  had  written  to  him,  and 
she  added,  with  tears  in  her  eyes:  "To  sacrifice  me  to  another 
man  would  make  me  wretched." 

"But,  Augustine,  you  cannot  surely  know  what  a  painter 
is?"  cried  her  mother  with  horror. 

"Madame  Guillaume !"  said  the  old  man,  compelling  her 
to  silence. — "Augustine,"  he  went  on,  "artists  are  generally 
little  better  than  beggars.  They  are  too  extravagant  not  to 
be  always  a  bad  sort.  I  served  the  late  Monsieur  Joseph 
Vernet,  the  late  Monsieur  Lekain,  and  the  late  Monsieur 
Noverre.  Oh,  if  you  could  only  know  the  tricks  played 


58  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

on  poor  Father  Chevrel  by  that  Monsieur  Noverre,  by  the 
Chevalier  de  Saint-Georges,  and  especially  by  Monsieur 
Philidor.  They  are  a  set  of  rascals;  I  know  them  well! 
They  all  have  a  gab  and  nice  manners.  Ah,  your  Monsieur 
Sumer — ,  Somm — " 

"De  Sommervieux,  papa." 

"Well,  well,  de  Sommervieux,  well  and  good.  He  can 
never  have  been  half  so  sweet  to  you  as  Monsieur  le  Cheva- 
lier de  Saint-Georges  was  to  me  the  day  I  got  a  verdict  of 
the  consuls  against  him.  And  in  those  days  they  were  gen- 
tlemen of  quality." 

"But,  father,  Monsieur  Theodore  is  of  good  family,  and 
he  wrote  me  that  he  is  rich;  his  father  was  called  Chevalier 
de  Sommervieux  before  the  Revolution." 

At  these  words  Monsieur  Guillaiime  looked  at  his  terri- 
ble better  half,  who,  like  an  angry  woman,  sat  tapping  the 
floor  with  her  foot  while  keeping  sullen  silence;  she  avoided 
even  casting  wrathful  looks  at  Augustine,  appearing  to  leave 
to  Monsieur  Guillaume  the  whole  responsibility  in  so  grave 
a  matter,  since  her  opinion  was  not  listened  to.  Neverthe- 
less, in  spite  of  her  apparent  self-control,  when  she  saw  her 
husband  giving  way  so  mildly  under  a  catastrophe  which 
had  no  concern  with  business,  she  exclaimed:  "Really, 
Monsieur,  you  are  so  weak  with  your  daughters!  How- 
ever— " 

The  sound  of  a  carriage,  which  stopped  at  the  door,  in- 
terrupted the  rating  which  the  old  draper  already  quaked 
at.  In  a  minute'  Madame  Roquin  was  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  looking  at  the  actors  in  this  do- 
mestic scene:  "I  know  all,  my  dear  cousin."  said  she, 
with  a  patronizing  air. 

Madame  Roquin  made  the  great  mistake  of  supposing 
that  a  Paris  notary's  wife  could  play  the  part  of  a  favorite 
of  fashion. 

"1  know  all,"  she  repeated,  "and  I  have  come  into 
Noah's  Ark,  like  the  dove,  with  the  olive-branch.  I  read 
that  allegory  in  the  'Genie  du  Christianisme, '  "  she  added, 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF   THE   CAT  AND    RACKET  59 

turning  to  Madame  Guillaume;  "the  allusion  ought  to 
please  you,  cousin.  Do  you  know,"  she  went  on,  smil- 
ing at  Augustine,  "that  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux  is  a 
charming  man?  He  gave  me  my  portrait  this  morning, 
painted  by  a  master's  hand.  It  is  worth  at  least  six 
thousand  francs."  And  at  these  words  she  patted  Mon- 
sieur Guillaume  on  the  arm.  The  old  draper  could  not 
help  making  a  grimace  with  his  lips,  which  was  peculiar 
to  him. 

ill  know  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux  very  well,"  the 
Dove  ran  on.  "He  has  come  to  my  evenings  this  fort- 
night past,  and  made  them  delightful.  He  has  told  me 
all  his  woes,  and  commissioned  me  to  plead  for  him.  I 
know  since  this  morning  that  he  adores  Augustine,  and 
he  shall  have  her.  Ah,  cousin,  do  not  shake  your  head 
in  refusal.  He  will  be  created  Baron,  I  can  tell  you,  and 
has  just  been  made  Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  by 
the  Emperor  himself,  at  the  Salon.  Eoquin  is  now  his 
lawyer,  and  knows  all  his  affairs.  Well!  Monsieur  de 
Sommervieux  has  twelve  thousand  francs  a  year  in  good 
landed  estate.  Do  you  know  that  the  father-in-law  of  such 
a  man  may  get  a  rise  in  life — be  mayor  of  his  arrondisse- 
ment,  for  instance.  Have  we  not  seen  Monsieur  Dupont 
become  a  Count  of  the  Empire,  and  a  senator,  all  because 
he  went  as  mayor  to  congratulate  the  Emperor  on  his  entry 
into  Vienna?  Oh,  this  marriage  must  take  place!  For  my 
part,  1  adore  the  dear  young  man.  His  behavior  to  Augus- 
tine is  only  met  with  in  romances.  Be  easy,  little  one,  you 
shall  be  happy,  and  every  girl  will  wish  she  were  in  your 
place.  Madame  la  Duchesse  de  Carigliano,  who  comes  to 
my  'At  Homes,'  raves  about  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux. 
Some  spiteful  people  say  she  only  conies  to  me  to  meet  him; 
as  if  a  duchess  of  yesterday  was  doing  too  much  honor  to  a 
Chevrel,  whose  family  have  been  respected  citizens  these 
hundred  years! 

"Augustine,"  Madame  Boquin  went  on,  after  a  short 
pause,  <;I  have  seen  the  portrait.  Heavens!  How  lovely 


60  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

it  is!  Do  you  know  that  the  Emperor  wanted  to  have  it? 
He  laughed,  and  said  to  the  Deputy  High  Constable  that  if 
there  were  many  women  like  that  at  his  court  while  all  the 
kings  visited  it,  he  should  have  no  difficulty  about  preserv- 
ing the  peace  of  Europe.  Is  not  that  a  compliment?" 

The  tempests  with  which  the  day  had  begun  were  to 
resemble  those  of  nature,  by  ending  in  clear  and  serene 
weather.  Madame  Roquin  displayed  so  much  address  in 
her  harangue,  she  was  able  to  touch  so  many  strings  in  the 
dry  hearts  of  Monsieur  and  Madame  Guillaume,  that  at  last 
she  hit  on  one  which  she  could  work  upon.  At  this  strange 
period  commerce  and  finance  were  more  than  ever  possessed 
by  the  crazy  mania  for  seeking  alliance  with  rank;  and  the 
generals  of  the  Empire  took  full  advantage  of  this  desire. 
Monsieur  Guillaume,  as  a  singular  exception,  opposed  this 
deplorable  craving.  His  favorite  axioms  were  that,  to  se- 
cure happiness,  a  woman  must  marry  a  man  of  her  own 
class;  that  every  one  was  punished  sooner  or  later  for  hav- 
ing climbed  too  high;  that  love  could  so  little  endure  un- 
der the  worries  of  a  household,  that  both  husband  and  wife 
needed  sound  good  qualities  to  be  happy ;  that  it  would  not 
do  for  one  to  be  far  in  advance  of  the  other,  because,  above 
everything,  they  must  understand  each  other;  if  a  man 
spoke  Greek  and  his  wife  Latin,  they  might  come  to  die 
of  hunger.  He  had  himself  invented  this  sort  of  adage. 
And  he  compared  such  marriages  to  old-fashioned  ma- 
terials of  mixed  silk  and  wool,  in  which  the  silk  always  at 
last  wore  through  the  wool.  Still,  there  is  so  much  vanity 
at  the  bottom  of  man's  heart  that  the  prudence  of  the  pilot 
who  steered  the  Cat  and  Racket  so  wisely  gave  way  before 
Madame  Roquin's  aggressive  volubility.  Austere  Madame 
Guillaume  was  the  first  to  see  in  her  daughter's  affection  a 
reason  for  abdicating  her  principJes  and  for  consenting  to 
receive  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux,  whom  she  promised 
herself  she  would  put  under  severe  inquisition. 

The  old  draper  went  to  look  for  Joseph  Lebas,  and  in- 
form him  of  the  state  of  affairs.  At  half-past  six,  the  din- 


AT    THE    SIGN   OF    THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  61 

ing- room  immortalized  by  the  artist  saw,  united  under  the 
skylight,  Monsieur  and  Madame  Eoquin,  the  young  painter 
and  his  charming  Augustine,  Joseph  Lebas,  who  found  his 
happiness  in  patience,  and  Mademoiselle  Virginie,  convales- 
cent from  her  headache.  Monsieur  and  Madame  Guillaume 
saw  in  perspective  both  their  children  married,  and  the  for- 
tunes of  the  Cat  and  Racket  once  more  in  skilful  hands. 
Their  satisfaction  was  at  its  height  when,  at  dessert,  TheV 
dore  made  them  a  present  of  the  wonderful  picture  which 
they  had  failed  to  see,  representing  the  interior  of  the  old 
shop,  and  to  which  they  all  owed  so  much  happiness. 

"Isn't  it  pretty!"  cried  Guillaume.  "And  to  think  that 
any  one  would  pay  thirty  thousand  francs  for  that!" 

"Because  you  can  see  my  lappets  in  it,"  said  Madame 
Guillaume. 

"And  the  cloth  unrolled!"  added  Lebas;  "you  might 
take  it  up  in  your  hand." 

"Drapery  always  comes  out  well,"  replied  the  painter. 
"We  should  be  only  too  happy,  we  modern  artists,  if  we 
could  touch  the  perfection  of  antique  drapery." 

"So  you  like  drapery!"  cried  old  Guillaume.  "Well, 
then,  by  Gad!  shake  hands  on  that,  my  young  friend. 
Since  you  can  respect  trade,  we  shall  understand  each  other. 
And  why  should  it  be  despised  ?  The  world  began  with 
trade,  since  Adam  sold  Paradise  for  an  apple.  He  did  not 
strike  a  good  bargain  though!"  And  the  old  man  roared 
with  honest  laughter,  encouraged  by  the  champagne,  which 
he  sent  round  with  a  liberal  hand.  The  band  that  covered 
the  young  artist's  eyes  was  so  thick  that  he  thought  his 
future  parents  amiable.  He  was  not  above  enlivening 
them  by  a  few  jests  in  the  best  taste.  So  he  too  pleased 
every  one.  In  the  evening,  when  the  drawing-room,  fur- 
nished with  what  Madame  Guillaume  called  "everything 
handsome,"  was  deserted,  and  while  she  flitted  from  the 
table  to  the  chimney-piece,  from  the  candelabra  to  the  tall 
candlesticks,  hastily  blowing  out  the  wax-lights,  the  worthy 
draper,  who  was  always  clearsighted  when  money  was  in 


62  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

question,  called  Augustine  to  him,  and  seating  her  on  his 
knee,  spoke  as  follows: 

"My  dear  child,  you  shall  marry  your  Sommervieux 
since  you  insist;  you  may,  if  you  like,  risk  your  capital 
in  happiness.  But  I  am  not  going  to  be  hoodwinked  by 
the  thirty  thousand  francs  to  be  made  by  spoiling  good 
canvas.  Money  that  is  lightly  earned  is  lightly  spent. 
Did  I  not  hear  that  hare-brained  youngster  declare  this 
evening  that  money  was  made  round  that  it  might  roll. 
If  it  is  round  for  spendthrifts,  it  is  flat  for  saving  folk 
who  pile  it  up.  Now,  my  child,  that  fine  gentleman  talks 
of  giving  you  carriages  and  diamonds!  He  has  money, 
let  him  spend  it  on  you;  so  be  it.  It  is  no  concern  of 
mine.  But  as  to  what  I  can  give  you,  I  will  not  have  the 
crown-pieces  I  have  picked  up  with  so  much  toil  wasted  in 
carriages  and  frippery.  Those  who  spend  too  fast  never 
grow  rich.  A  hundred  thousand  crowns,  which  is  your 
fortune,  will  not  buy  up  Paris.  It  is  all  very  well  to  look 
forward  to  a  few  hundred  thousand  francs  to  be  yours  some 
day :  I  shall  keep  you  waiting  for  them  as  long  as  possible, 
by  Gad !  So  I  took  your  lover  aside,  and  a  man  who  man- 
aged the  Lecocq  bankruptcy  had  not  much  difficulty  in  per- 
suading the  artist  to  marry  under  a  settlement  of  his  wife's 
money  on  herself.  I  will  keep  an  eye  on  the  marriage  con- 
tract to  see  that  what  he  is  to  settle  on  you  is  safely  tied  up. 
So  now,  my  child,  I  hope  to  be  a  grandfather,  by  Gad!  I 
will  begin  at  once  to  lay  up  for  my  grandchildren;  but 
swear  to  me,  here  and  now,  never  to  sign  any  papers  re- 
lating to  money  without  my  advice;  and  if  I  go  soon  to 
join  old  father  Chevrel,  promise  to  consult  young  Lebas, 
your  brother-in-law. ' ' 

"Yes,  father,  I  swear  it." 

At  these  words,  spoken  in  a  gentle  voice,  the  old  man 
kissed  his  daughter  on  both  cheeks.  That  night  the  lovers 
slept  as  soundly  as  Monsieur  and  Madame  Guillaume. 

Some  few  months  after  this  memorable  Sunday  the  high 


AT    THE   SIGN   OF    THE    CAT   AND    BACKET  63 

altar  of  Saint-Leu  was  the  scene  of  two  very  different  wed- 
dings. Augustine  and  Theodore  appeared  in  all  the  radiance 
of  happiness,  their  eyes  beaming  with  love,  dressed  with  ele- 
gance, while  a  fine  carriage  waited  for  them.  Virginie,  who 
had  come  in  a  good  hired  fly  with  the  rest  of  the  family, 
humbly  followed  her  younger  sister,  dressed  in  the  simplest 
fashion,  like  a  shadow  necessary  to  the  harmony  of  the  pic- 
ture. Monsieur  Guillaume  had  exerted  himself  to  the  ut- 
most in  the  church  to  get  Virginie  married  before  Angus- 
tine,  but  the  priests,  high  and  low,  persisted  in  addressing 
the  more  elegant  of  the  two  brides.  He  heard  some  of  his 
neighbors  highly  approving  the  good  sense  of  Mademoiselle 
Virginie,  who  was  making,  as  they  said,  the  more  substan- 
tial match,  and  remaining  faithful  to  the  neighborhood; 
while  they  fired  a  few  taunts,  prompted  by  envy  of  Augus- 
tine, who  was  marrying  an  artist  and  a  man  of  rank;  add- 
ing, with  a  sort  of  dismay,  that  if  the  Guillaumes  were 
ambitious,  there  was  an  end  to  the  business.  An  old  fan- 
maker  having  remarked  that  such  a  prodigal  would  soon 
bring  his  wife  to  beggary,  father  Guillaume  prided  himself 
in  petto  for  his  prudence  in  the  matter  of  marriage  settle- 
ments. In  the  evening,  after  a  splendid  ball,  followed  by 
one  of  those  substantial  suppers  of  which  the  memory  is 
dying  out  in  the  present  generation,  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Guillaume  remained  in  a  fine  house  belonging  to  them  in 
the  Rue  du  Colombier,  where  the  wedding  had  been  held; 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Lebas  returned  in  their  fly  to  the 
old  home  in  the  Rue  Saint-Denis,  to  steer  the  good  ship 
Cat  and  Racket.  The  artist,  intoxicated  with  happiness, 
carried  off  his  beloved  Augustine,  and  eagerly  lifting  her 
out  of  their  carriage  when  it  reached  the  Rue  des  Trois- 
Freres,  led  her  to  an  apartment  embellished  by  all  the  arts. 
The  fever  of  passion  which  possessed  Theodore  made  a 
year  fly  over  the  young  couple  without  a  single  cloud  to 
dim  the  blue  sky  under  which  they  lived.  Life  did  not 
hang  heavy  on  the  lovers'  hands.  Theodore  lavished  on 
every  day  inexhaustible  fioriture  of  enjoyment,  and  he  de- 


64  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

lighted  to  vary  the  transports  of  passion  by  the  soft  lan- 
guor of  those  hours  of  repose  when  souls  soar  so  high  that 
they  seem  to  have  forgotten  all  bodily  union.  Augustine 
was  too  happy  for  reflection ;  she  floated  on  an  undulating 
tide  of  rapture;  she  thought  she  could  not  do  enough  by 
abandoning  herself  to  sanctioned  and  sacred  married  love; 
simple  and  artless,  she  had  no  coquetry,  no  reserves,  none 
of  the  dominion  which  a  worldly-minded  girl  acquires  over 
her  husband  by  ingenious  caprice;  she  loved  too  well  to 
calculate  for  the  future,  and  never  imagined  that  so  ex- 
quisite a  life  could  come  to  an  end.  Happy  in  being  her 
husband's  sole  delight,  she  believed  that  her  inextinguish- 
able love  would  always  be  her  greatest  grace  in  his  eyes, 
as  her  devotion  and  obedience  would  be  a  perennial  charm. 
And,  indeed,  the  ecstasy  of  love  had  made  her  so  brilliantly 
lovely  that  her  beauty  filled  her  with  pride,  and  gave  her 
confidence  that  she  could  always  reign  over  a  man  so  easy 
to  kindle  as  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux.  Thus  her  posi- 
tion as  a  wife  brought  her  no  knowledge  but  the  lessons 
of  love. 

In  the  midst  of  her  happiness,  she  was  still  the  simple 
child  who  had  lived  in  obscurity  in  the  Rue  Saint-Denis, 
and  she  never  thought  of  acquiring  the  manners,  the  in- 
formation, the  tone  of  the  world  she  had  to  live  in.  Her 
words  being  the  words  of  love,  she  revealed  in  them,  no 
doubt,  a  certain  pliancy  of  mind  and  a  certain  refinement 
of  speech ;  but  she  used  the  language  common  to  all  women 
when  they  find  themselves  plunged  in  passion,  which  seems 
to  be  their  element.  When,  by  chance,  Augustine  expressed 
an  idea  that  did  not  harmonize  with  Theodore's,  the  young  ar- 
tist laughed,  as  we  laugh  at  the  first  mistakes  of  a  foreigner, 
though  they  end  by  annoying  us  if  they  are  not  corrected. 

In  spite  of  all  this  lovemaking,  by  the  end  of  this  year, 
as  delightful  as  it  was  swift,  Sommervieux  felt  one  morn- 
ing the  need  for  resuming  his  work  and  his  old  habits. 
His  wife  was  expecting  their  first  child.  He  saw  some 
friends  again.  During  the  tedious  discomforts  of  the  year 


AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   CAT   AND   RACKET  65 

when  a  young  wife  is  nursing  an  infant  for  the  first  time, 
he  worked,  no  doubt,  with  zeal,  but  he  occasionally  sought 
diversion  in  the  fashionable  world.  The  house  which  he 
was  best  pleased  to  frequent  was  that  of  the  Duchesse  de 
Carigliano,  who  had  at  last  attracted  the  celebrated  artist 
to  her  parties.  When  Augustine  was  quite  well  again, 
and  her  boy  no  longer  required  the  assiduous  care  which 
debars  a  mother  from  social  pleasures,  Theodore  had  come 
to  the  stage  of  wishing  to  know  the  joys  of  satisfied  vanity 
to  be  found  in  society  by  a  man  who  shows  himself  with  a 
handsome  woman,  the  object  of  envy  and  admiration. 

To  figure  in  drawing-rooms  with  the  reflected  lustre  of 
her  husband's  fame,  and  to  find  other  women  envious  of  her, 
was  to  Augustine  a  new  harvest  of  pleasures ;  but  it  was  the 
last  gleam  of  conjugal  happiness.  She  first  wounded  her 
husband's  vanity  when,  in  spite  of  vain  efforts,  she  betrayed 
her  ignorance,  the  inelegance  of  her  language,  and  the  nar- 
rowness of  her  ideas.  Sommervieux'  nature,  subjugated  for 
nearly  two  years  and  a  half  by  the  first  transports  of  love, 
now,  in  the  calm  of  less  new  possession,  recovered  its  bent 
and  habits,  for  a  while  diverted  from  their  channel.  Poetry, 
painting,  and  the  subtle  joys  of  imagination  have  inalienable 
rights  over  a  lofty  spirit.  These  cravings  of  a  powerful  soul 
had  not  been  starved  in  Theodore  during  these  two  years; 
they  had  only  found  fresh  pasture.  As  soon  as  the  meadows 
of  love  had  been  ransacked,  and  the  artist  had  gathered  roses 
and  cornflowers  as  the  children  do,  so  greedily  that  he  did 
not  see  that  his  hands  could  hold  no  more,  the  scene  changed. 
When  the  painter  showed  his  wife  the  sketches  for  his  finest 
compositions  he  heard  her  exclaim,  as  her  father  had  done, 
"How  pretty!"  This  tepid  admiration  was  not  the  outcome 
of  conscientious  feeling,  but  of  her  faith  on  the  strength  of 
love. 

Augustine  cared  more  for  a  look  than  for  the  finest  pic- 
ture. The  only  sublime  she  knew  was  that  of  the  heart.  At 
last  Theodore  could  not  resist  the  evidence  of  the  cruel  fact 
— his  wife  was  insensible  to  poetry,  she  did  not  dwell  in  his 


66  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

sphere,  she  could  not  follow  him  in  all  his  vagaries,  his  in- 
ventions, his  joys  and  his  sorrows;  she  walked  grovelling  in 
the  world  of  reality,  while  his  head  was  in  the  skies.  Com- 
mon minds  cannot  appreciate  the  perennial  sufferings  of  a 
being  who,  while  bound  to  another  by  the  most  intimate  affec- 
tions, is  obliged  constantly  to  suppress  the  dearest  flights  of 
his  soul,  and  to  thrust  down  into  the  void  those  images  which 
a  magic  power  compels  him  to  create.  To  him  the  torture 
is  all  the  more  intolerable  because  his  feeling  toward  his  com- 
panion enjoins,  as  its  first  law,  that  they  should  have  no 
concealments,  but  mingle  the  aspirations  of  their  thought 
as  perfectly  as  the  effusions  of  their  soul.  The  demands  of 
nature  are  not  to  be  cheated.  She  is  as  inexorable  as  neces- 
sity, which  is,  indeed,  a  sort  of  social  nature.  Sommervieux 
took  refuge  in  the  peace  and  silence  of  his  studio,  hoping 
that  the  habit  of  living  with  artists  might  mold  his  wife  and 
develop  in  her  the  dormant  germs  of  lofty  intelligence  which 
some  superior  minds  suppose  must  exist  in  every  being.  But 
Augustine  was  too  sincerely  religious  not  to  take  fright  at 
the  tone  of  artists.  At  the  first  dinner  Theodore  gave,  she 
heard  a  young  painter  say,  with  the  childlike  lightness  which 
to  her  was  unintelligible,  and  which  redeems  a  jest  from  the 
taint  of  profanity,  "But,  Madame,  your  Paradise  cannot  be 
more  beautiful  than  Eafael's  'Transfiguration'! — Well,  and 
I  got  tired  of  looking  at  that." 

Thus  Augustine  came  among  this  sparkling  set  in  a  spirit 
of  distrust  which  no  one  could  fail  to  see.  She  was  a  re- 
straint on  their  freedom.  Now  an  artist  who  feels  restraint 
is  pitiless;  he  stays  away,  or  laughs  it  to  scorn.  Madame 
Guillaume,  among  other  absurdities,  had  an  excessive  notion 
of  the  dignity  she  considered  the  prerogative  of  a  married 
woman;  and  Augustine,  though  she  had  often  made  fun  of 
it,  could  not  help  a  slight  imitation  of  her  mother's  primness. 
This  extreme  propriety,  which  virtuous  wives  do  not  always 
avoid,  suggested  a  few  epigrams  in  the  form  of  sketches,  in 
which  the  harmless  jest  was  in  such  good  taste  that  Sommer- 
vieux could  not  take  offence;  and  even  if  they  had  been 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF   THE   CAT  AND    RACKET  67 

more  severe,  these  pleasantries  were  after  all  only  reprisals 
from  his  friends.  Still,  nothing  could  seem  a  trifle  to  a  spirit 
so  open  as  Theodore's  to  impressions  from  without.  A  cold- 
ness insensibly  crept  over  him,  and  inevitably  spread.  To 
attain  conjugal  happiness  we  must  climb  a  hill  whose  summit 
is  a  narrow  ridge,  close  to  a  steep  and  slippery  descent:  the 
painter's  love  was  falling  down  it.  He  regarded  his  wife  as 
incapable  of  appreciating  the  moral  considerations  which 
justified  him  in  his  own  eyes  for  his  singular  behavior  to 
her,  and  believed  himself  .quite  innocent  in  hiding  from  her 
thoughts  she  could  not  enter  into,  and  peccadilloes  outside 
the  jurisdiction  of  a  bourgeois  conscience.  Augustine  wrapped 
herself  in  sullen  and  silent  grief.  These  unconfessed  feelings 
placed  a  shroud  between  the  husband  and  wife  which  could 
not  fail  to  grow  thicker  day  by  day.  Though  her  husband 
never  failed  in  consideration  for  her,  Augustine  could  not 
help  trembling  as  she  saw  that  he  kept  for  the  outer  world 
those  treasures  of  wit  and  grace  that  he  formerly  would  lay 
at  her  feet.  She  soon  began  to  find  a  sinister  meaning  in  the 
jocular  speeches  that  are  current  in  the  world  as  to  the  incon- 
stancy of  men.  She  made  no  complaints,  but  her  demeanor 
conveyed  reproach. 

Three  years  after  her  marriage  this  pretty  young  woman, 
who  dashed  past  in  her  handsome  carriage,  and  lived  in  a 
sphere  of  glory  and  riches  to  the  envy  of  heedless  folk  in- 
capable of  taking  a  just  view  of  the  situations  of  life,  was 
a  prey  to  intense  grief.  She  lost  her  color;  she  reflected; 
she  made  comparisons;  then  sorrow  unfolded  to  her  the  first 
lessons  of  experience.  She  determined  to  restrict  herself 
bravely  within  the  round  of  duty,  hoping  that  by  this  gen- 
erous conduct  she  might  sooner  or  later  win  back  her  hus- 
band's love.  But  it  was  not  so.  When  Sommervieux,  tired 
with  work,  came  in  from  his  studio,  Augustine  did  not  put 
away  her  work  so  quickly  but  that  the  painter  might  find  his 
wife  mending  the  household  linen,  and  his  own,  with  all  the 
care  of  a  good  housewife.  She  supplied  generously  and 
without  a  murmur  the  money  needed  for  his  lavishness;  but 


fi8  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

in  her  anxiety  to  husband  her  dear  Theodore's  fortune,  she 
was  strictly  economical  for  herself  and  in  certain  details  of 
domestic  management.  Such  conduct  is  incompatible  with 
the  easy-going  habits  of  artists,  who,  at  the  end  of  their  life, 
have  enjoyed  it  so  keenly  that  they  never  inquire  into  the 
causes  of  their  ruin. 

It  is  useless  to  note  every  tint  of  shadow  by  which  the 
brilliant  hues  of  their  honeymoon  were  overcast  till  they 
were  lost  in  utter  blackness.  One  evening  poor  Augustine, 
who  had  for  some  time  heard  her  husband  speak  with  en- 
thusiasm of  the  Duchesse  de  Carigliano,  received  from  a 
friend  certain  malignantly  charitable  warnings  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  attachment  which  Sommervieux  had  formed 
for  this  celebrated  flirt  of  the  Imperial  Court.  At  one-and- 
twenty,  in  all  the  splendor  of  youth  and  beauty,  Augustine 
saw  herself  deserted  for  a  woman  of  six-and-thirty.  Feeling 
herself  so  wretched  in  the  midst  of  a  world  of  festivity  which 
to  her  was  a  blank,  the  poor  little  thing  could  no  longer 
understand  the  admiration  she  excited,  or  the  envy  of  which 
she  was  the  object.  Her  face  assumed  a  different  expres- 
sion. Melancholy  tinged  her  features  with  the  sweetness  of 
resignation  and  the  pallor  of  scorned  love.  Ere  long  she  too 
was  courted  by  the  most  fascinating  men;  but  she  remained 
lonely  and  virtuous.  Some  contemptuous  words  which 
escaped  her  husband  filled  her  with  incredible  despair.  A 
sinister  flash  showed  her  the  breaches  which,  as  a  result  of  her 
sordid  education,  hindered  the  perfect  union  of  her  soul  with 
Theodore's;  she  loved  him  well  enough  to  absolve  him  and 
condemn  herself.  She  shed  tears  of  blood,  and  perceived, 
too  late,  that  there  are  mesalliances  of  the  spirit  as  well  as  of 
rank  and  habits.  As  she  recalled  the  early  raptures  of  their 
union,  she  understood  the  full  extent  of  that  lost  happiness, 
and  accepted  the  conclusion  that  so  rich  a  harvest  of  love 
was  in  itself  a  whole  life,  which  only  sorrow  could  pay  for. 
At  the  same  time,  she  loved  too  truly  to  lose  all  hope.  At 
one-and-twenty  she  dared  undertake  to  educate  herself,  and 
make  her  imagination,  at  least,  worthy  of  that  she  admired. 


AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE    CAT   AND   RACKET  69 

"If  I  am  not  a  poet,"  thought  she,   "at  any  rate,  I  will 
understand  poetry. ' ' 

Then,  with  all  the  strength  of  will,  all  the  energy  which 
every  woman  can  display  when  she  loves,  Madame  de  Som- 
mervieux  tried  to  alter  her  character,  her  manners,  and  her 
habits;  but  by  dint  of  devouring  books  and  learning  un- 
dauntedly, she  only  succeeded  in  becoming  less  ignorant. 
Lightness  of  wit  and  the  graces  of  conversation  are  a  gift  of 
nature,  or  the  fruit  of  education  begun  in  the  cradle.  She 
could  appreciate  music  and  enjoy  it,  but  she  could  not  sing 
with  taste.  She  understood  literature  and  the  beauties  of 
poetry,  but  it  was  too  late  to  cultivate  her  refractory  mem- 
ory. She  listened  with  pleasure  to  social  conversation,  but 
she  could  contribute  nothing  brilliant.  Her  religious  notions 
and  home-grown  prejudices  were  antagonistic  to  the  complete 
emancipation  of  her  intelligence.  Finally,  a  foregone  con- 
clusion against  her  had  stolen  into  Theodore's  mind,  and 
this  she  could  not  conquer.  The  artist  would  laugh  at  those 
who  flattered  him  about  his  wife,  and  his  irony  had  some 
foundation ;  he  so  overawed  the  pathetic  young  -creature  that, 
in  his  presence,  or  alone  with  him,  she  trembled.  Hampered 
by  her  too  eager  desire  to  please,  her  wits  and  her  knowledge 
vanished  in  one  absorbing  feeling.  Even  her  fidelity  vexed 
the  unfaithful  husband,  who  seemed  to  bid  her  do  wrong  by 
stigmatizing  her  virtue  as  insensibility.  Augustine  tried 
in  vain  to  abdicate  her  reason,  to  yield  to  her  husband's 
caprices  and  whims,  to  devote  herself  to  the  selfishness  of  his 
vanity.  Her  sacrifices  bore  no  fruit.  Perhaps  they  had  both 
let  the  moment  slip  when  souls  may  meet  in  comprehension. 
One  day  the  young  wife's  too  sensitive  heart  received  one 
of  those  blows  which  so  strain  the  bonds  of  feeling  that  they 
seem  to  be  broken.  She  withdrew  into  solitude.  But  before 
long  a  fatal  idea  suggested  to  her  to  seek  counsel  and  comfort 
in  the  bosom  of  her  family. 

So  one  morning  she  made  her  way  toward  the  grotesque 
faQade  of  the  humble,  silent  home  where  she  had  spent  her 
childhood.  She  sighed  as  she  looked  up  at  the  sash-window, 


70  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

whence  one  day  she  had  sent  her  first  kiss  to  him  who  now 
shed  as  much  sorrow  as  glory  on  her  life.  Nothing  was 
changed  in  the  cavern,  where  the  drapery  business  had,  how- 
ever, started  on  a  new  life.  Augustine's  sister  filled  her 
mother's  old  place  at  the  desk.  The  unhappy  young  woman 
met  her  brother-in-law  with  his  pen  behind  his  ear;  he  -hardly 
listened  to  her,  he  was  so  full  of  business.  The  formidable 
symptoms  of  stock-taking  were  visible  all  round  him;  he 
begged  her  to  excuse  him.  She  was  received  coldly  enough 
by  her  sister,  who  owed  her  a  grudge.  In  fact,  Augustine, 
in  her  finery,  and  stepping  out  of  a  handsome  carriage,  had 
never  been  to  see  her  but  when  passing  by.  The  wife  of  the 
prudent  Lebas,  imagining  that  want  of  money  was  the  prime 
cause  of  this  early  call,  tried  to  keep  up  a  tone  of  reserve 
which  more  than  once  made  Augustine  smile.  The  painter's 
wife  perceived  that,  apart  from  the  cap  and  lappets,  her 
mother  had  found  in  Yirginie  a  successor  who  could  uphold 
the  ancient  honor  of  the  Cat  and  Racket.  At  breakfast  she 
observed  certain  changes  in  the  management  of  the  house 
which  did  honor  to  Lebas'  good  sense ;  the  assistants  did  not 
rise  before  dessert;  they  were  allowed  to  talk,  and  the  abun- 
dant meal  spoke  of  ease  without  luxury.  The  fashionable 
woman  found  some  tickets  for  a  box  at  the  Fran§ais,  where 
she  remembered  having  seen  her  sister  from  time  to  time. 
Madame  Lebas  had  a  cashmere  shawl  over  her  shoulders,  of 
which  the  value  bore  witness  to  her  husband's  generosity 
to  her.  In  short,  the  couple  were  keeping  pace  with  the 
times.  During  the  two-thirds  of  the  day  she  spent  there, 
Augustine  was  touched  to  the  heart  by  the  equable  happi- 
ness, devoid,  to  be  sure,  of  all  emotion,  but  equally  free  from 
storms,  enjoyed  by  this  well-matched  couple.  They  had 
accepted  life  as  a  commercial  enterprise,  in  which,  above 
all,  they  must  do  credit  to  the  business.  Not  finding  any 
great  love  in  her  husband,  Virginie  had  set  to  work  to  create 
it.  Having  by  degrees  learned  to  esteem  and  care  for  his 
wife,  the  time  that  his  happiness  had  taken  to  germinate  was 
to  Joseph  Lebas  a  guarantee  of  its  durability.  Hence,  when 


AT   THE   SIGN  OF   THE   CAT  AND    RACKET  71 

Augustine  plaintively  set  forth  her  painful  position,  she  had 
to  face  the  deluge  of  commonplace  morality  which  the  tradi- 
tions of  the  Rue  Saint-Denis  furnished  to  her  sister. 

"The  mischief  is  done,  wife,"  said  Joseph  Lebas;  "we 
must  try  to  give  our  sister  good  advice. ' '  Then  the  clever 
tradesman  ponderously  analyzed  the  resources  which  law  and 
custom  might  offer  Augustine  as  a  means  of  escape  at  this 
crisis;  he  ticketed  every  argument,  so  to  speak,  and  arranged 
them  in  their  degrees  of  weight  under  various  categories, 
as  though  they  were  articles  of  merchandise  of  different  quali- 
ties; then  he  put  them  in  the  scale,  weighed  them,  and  ended 
by  showing  the  necessity  for  his  sister-in-law's  taking  violent 
steps  which  could  not  satisfy  the  love  she  still  had  for  her 
husband;  and,  indeed,  the  feeling  had  revived  in  all  its 
strength  when  she  heard  Joseph  Lebas  speak  of  legal  pro- 
ceedings. Augustine  thanked  them,  and  returned  home  even 
more  undecided  than  she  had  been  before  consulting  them. 
She  now  ventured  to  go  to  the  house  in  the  Rue  du  Colom- 
bier,  intending  to  confide  her  troubles  to  her  father  and 
mother;  for  she  was  like  a  sick  man  who,  in  his  desperate 
plight,  tries  every  prescription,  and  even  puts  faith  in  old 
wives'  remedies. 

The  old  people  received  their  daughter  with  an  effusive- 
ness that  touched  her  deeply.  Her  visit  brought  them  some 
little  change,  and  that  to  them  was  worth  a  fortune.  For  the 
last  four  years  they  had  gone  their  way  in  life  like  navigators 
without  a  goal  or  a  compass.  Sitting  by  the  chimney-corner, 
they  would  talk  over  their  disasters  under  the  old  law  of 
maximum,  of  their  great  investments  in  cloth,  of  the  way 
they  had  weathered  bankruptcies,  and,  above  all,  the  famous 
failure  of  Lecocq,  Monsieur  Guillaume's  battle  of  Marengo. 
Then,  when  they  had  exhausted  the  tale  of  lawsuits,  they 
recapitulated  the  sums  total  of  their  most  profitable  stock- 
takings, and  told  each  other  old  stories  of  the  Saint-Denis 
quarter.  At  two  o'clock  old  Guillaume  went  to  cast  an  eye 
on  the  business  at  the  Cat  and  Racket;  on  his  way  back  he 
called  at  all  the  shops,  formerly  the  rivals  of  his  own,  where 


72  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

the  young  proprietors  hoped  to  inveigle  the  old  draper  into 
some  risky  discount,  which,  as  was  his  wont,  he  never  re- 
fused pointblank.  Two  good  Normandy  horses  were  dying 
of  their  own  fat  in  the  stables  of  the  big  house;  Madame 
Guillaume  never  used  them  but  to  drag  her  on  Sundays  to 
high  mass  at  the  parish  church.  Three  times  a  week  the 
worthy  couple  kept  open  house.  By  the  influence  of  his 
son-in-law  Sommervieux,  Monsieur  Guillaume  had  been 
named  a  member  of  the  Consulting  Board  for  the  Clothing 
of  the  Army.  Since  her  husband  had  stood  so  high  in  office, 
Madame  Guillaume  had  decided  that  she  must  receive;  her 
rooms  were  so  crammed  with  gold  and  silver  ornaments,  and 
furniture,  tasteless  but  of  undoubted  value,  that  the  simplest 
room  in  the  house  looked  like  a  chapel.  Economy  and  ex- 
pense seemed  to  be  struggling  for  the  upper  hand  in  every 
accessory.  It  was  as  though  Monsieur  Guillaume  had  looked 
to  a  good  investment,  even  in  the  purchase  of  a  candlestick. 
In  the  midst  of  this  bazaar,  where  splendor  revealed  the  own- 
ers' want  of  occupation,  Soinmervieux's  famous  picture  filled 
the  place  of  honor,  and  in  it  Monsieur  and  Madame  Guil- 
laume found  their  chief  consolation,  turning  their  eyes,  har- 
nessed with  eye-glasses,  twenty  times  a  day  on  this  present- 
ment of  their  past  life,  to  them  so  active  and  amusing.  The 
appearance  of  this  mansion  and  these  rooms,  where  every- 
thing had  an  aroma  of  staleness  and  mediocrity,  the  spectacle 
offered  by  these  two  beings,  cast  away,  as  it  were,  on  a  rock 
far  from  the  world  and  the  ideas  which  are  life,  startled  Au- 
gustine; she  cbuld  here  contemplate  the  sequel  of  the  scene 
of  which  the  first  part  had  struck  her  at  the  house  of  Lebas 
— a  life  of  stir  without  movement,  a  mechanical  and  instinc- 
tive existence  like  that  of  the  beaver;  and  then  she  felt  an 
indefinable  pride  in  her  troubles,  as  she  reflected  that  they 
had  their  source  in  eighteen  months  of  such  happiness  as, 
in  her  eyes,  was  worth  a  thousand  lives  like  this;  its  vacuity 
seemed  to  her  horrible.  However,  she  concealed  this  not  very 
charitable  feeling,  and  displayed  for  her  parents  her  newly- 
acquired  accomplishments  of  mind,  and  the  ingratiating 


AT   THE   SIGN  OF   THE   CAT  AND    RACKET  73 

tenderness  that  love  had  revealed  to  her,  disposing  them 
to  listen  to  her  matrimonial  grievances.  Old  people  have  a 
weakness  for  this  kind  of  confidences.  Madame  Guillaume 
wanted  to  know  the  most  trivial  details  of  that  alien  life, 
which  to  her  seemed  almost  fabulous.  The  travels  of  Baron 
de  la  Houtan,  which  she  began  again  and  again  and  never 
finished,  told  her  nothing  more  unheard-of  concerning  the 
Canadian  savages. 

"What,  child,  your  husband  shuts  himself  into  a  room 
with  naked  women!  And  you  are  so  simple  as  to  believe 
that  he  draws  them?" 

As  she  uttered  this  exclamation,  the  grandmother  laid 
her  spectacles  on  a  little  work-table,  shook  her  skirts,  and 
clasped  her  hands  on  her  knees,  raised  by  a  foot-warmer, 
her  favorite  pedestal. 

"But,  mother,  all  artists  are  obliged  to  have  models/1 

"He  took  good  care  not  to  tell  us  that  when  he  asked  leave 
to  marry  you.  If  I  had  known  it,  I  would  never  have  given 
my  daughter  to  a  man  who  followed  such  a  trade.  Eeligion 
forbids  such  horrors;  they  are  immoral.  And  at  what  time 
of  night  do  you  say  he  comes  home  ?" 

"At  one  o'clock — two — " 

The  old  folk  looked  at  each  other  in  utter  amazement. 

"Then  he  gambles?"  said  Monsieur  Guillaume.  "In  my 
day  only  gamblers  stayed  out  so  late. ' ' 

Augustine  made  a  face  that  scorned  the  accusation. 

"He  must  keep  you  up  through  dreadful  nights  waiting 
for  him,"  said  Madame  Guillaume.  "But  you  go  to  bed, 
don't  you?  And  when  he  has  lost,  the  wretch  wakes  you." 

"No,  mamma,  on  the  contrary,  he  is  sometimes  in  very 
good  spirits.  Not  infrequently,  indeed,  when  it  is  fine,  he 
suggests  that  I  should  get  up  and  go  into  the  woods." 

"The  woods!  At  that  hour?  Then  have  you  such  a 
small  set  of  rooms  that  his  bedroom  and  his  sitting-rooms 
are  not  enough,  and  that  he  must  run  about?  But  it  is  just 
to  give  you  cold  that  the  wretch  proposes  such  expeditions. 
He  wants  to  get  rid  of  you.  Did  one  ever  hear  of  a  man 

Vol.  A  BALZAC  4 


74  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

settled  in  life,  a  well-behaved,  quiet  man  galloping  about 
like  a  warlock?" 

"But,  my  dear  mother,  you  do  not  understand  that  he 
must  have  excitement  to  tire  his  genius.  He  is  fond  of 
scenes  which — " 

"I  would  make  scenes  for  him,  fine  scenes!"  cried  Ma- 
dame Guillaume,  interrupting  her  daughter.  "How  can  you 
show  any  consideration  to  such  a  man  ?  In  the  first  place, 
I  don't  like  his  drinking  water  only;  it  is  not  wholesome. 
Why  does  he  object  to  see  a  woman  eating  ?  What  queer 
notion  is  that!  But  he  is  mad.  All  you  tell  us  about  him 
is  impossible.  A  man  cannot  leave  his  home  without  a  word, 
and  never  come  back  for  ten  days.  And  then  he  tells  you  he 
has  been  to  Dieppe  to  paint  the  sea.  As  if  any  one  painted  the 
sea!  He  crams  you  with  a  pack  of  tales  that  are  too  absurd." 

Augustine  opened  her  lips  to  defend  her  husband;  but 
Madame  Guillaume  enjoined  silence  with  a  wave  of  her 
hand,  which  she  obeyed  by  a  survival  of  habit,  and  her 
mother  went  on  in  harsh  tones:  "Don't  talk  to  me  about 
the  man !  He  never  set  foot  in  a  church  excepting  to  see 
you  and  to  be  married.  People  without  religion  are  capable 
of  anything.  Did  Guillaume  ever  dream  of  hiding  anything 
from  me,  of  spending  three  days  without  saying  a  word  to 
me,  and  of  chattering  afterward  like  a  blind  magpie?" 

"My  dear  mother,  you  judge  superior  people  too  severely. 
If  their  ideas  were  the  same  as  other  folk's,  they  would  not 
be  men  of  genius." 

"Very  well,  then  let  men  of  genius  stop  at  home  and  not 
get  married.  What!  A  man  of  genius  is  to  make  his  wife 
miserable?  And  because  he  is  a  genius  it  is  all  right! 
Genius,  genius !  It  is  not  so  very  clever  to  say  black  one 
minute  and  white  the  next,  as  he  does,  to  interrupt  other 
people,  to  dance  such  rigs  at  home,  never  to  let  you  know 
which  foot  you  are  to  stand  on,  to  compel  his  wife  never  to 
be  amused  unless  my  lord  is  in  gay  spirits,  and  to  be  dull 
when  he  is  dull." 

"But,   mother,  the  very  nature  of  such  imaginations — " 


AT    THE   SIGN   OF    THE    CAT   AND   RACKET  75 

"What  are  such  'imaginations'  ?"  Madame  Guillaume 
went  on,  interrupting  her  daughter  again.  "Fine  ones  his 
are,  my  word!  What  possesses  a  man  that  all  on  a  sudden, 
without  consulting  a  doctor,  he  takes  it  into  his  head  to  eat 
nothing  but  vegetables  ?  If  indeed  it  were  from  religious 
motives,  it  might  do  him  some  good — but  he  has  no  more 
religion  than  a  Huguenot.  Was  there  ever  a  man  known 
who,  like  him,  loved  horses  better  than  his  fellow-creatures, 
had  his  hair  curled  like  a  heathen,  laid  statues  under  muslin 
coverlets,  shut  his  shutters  in  broad  day  to  work  by  lamp- 
light? There,  get  along;  if  he  were  not  so  grossly  immoral, 
he  would  be  fit  to  shut  up  in  a  lunatic  asylum.  Consult 
Monsieur  Loraux,  the  priest  at  Saint  Sulpice,  ask  his  opin- 
ion about  it  all,  and  he  will  tell  you  that  your  husband  does 
not  behave  like  a  Christian." 

"Oh,   mother,   can  you  believe — ?" 

"Yes,  I  do  believe.  You  loved  him,  and  you  can  see 
none  of  these  things.  But'I  can  remember  in  the  early  days 
after  your  marriage.  I  met  him  in  the  Champs-Elysees.  He 
was  on  horseback.  Well,  at  one  minute  he  was  galloping  as 
hard  as  he  could  tear,  and  then  pulled  up  to  a  walk.  I  said  to 
myself  at  that  moment,  'There  is  a  man  devoid  of  judgment.'  " 

"Ah,  ha!"  cried  Monsieur  Guillaume,  "how  wise  I  was 
to  have  your  money  settled  on  yourself  with  such  a  queer 
fellow  for  a  husband!" 

When  Augustine  was  so  imprudent  as  to  set  forth  her 
serious  grievances  against  her  husband,  the  two  old  people 
were  speechless  with  indignation.  But  the  word  "divorce" 
was  ere  long  spoken  by  Madame  Guillaume.  At  the  sound 
of  the  word  divorce  the  apathetic  old  draper  seemed  to  wake 
up.  Prompted  by  his  love  for  his  daughter,  and  also  by  the 
excitement  which  the  proceedings  would  bring  into. his  un- 
eventful life,  father  Guillaume  took  up  the  matter.  He 
made  himself  the  leader  of  the  application  for  a  divorce, 
laid  down  the  lines  of  it,  almost  argued  the  case;  he  offered 
to  be  at  all  the  charges,  to  see  the  lawyers,  the  pleaders,  the 


76  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

judges,  to  move  heaven  and  earth.  Madame  de  Sommer- 
vieux  was  frightened,  she  refused  her  father's  services,  said 
she  would  not  be  separated  from  her  husband  even  if  she 
were  ten  times  as  unhappy,  and  talked  no  more  about  her 
sorrows.  After  being  overwhelmed  by  her  parents  with  all 
the  little  wordless  and  consoling  kindnesses  by  which  the 
old  couple  tried  in  vain  to  make  up  to  her  for  her  distress 
of  heart,  Augustine  went  away,  feeling  the  impossibility  of 
making  a  superior  mind  intelligible  to  weak  intellects.  She 
had  learned  that  a  wife  must  hide  from  every  one,  even  from 
her  parents,  woes  for  which  it  is  so  difficult  to  find  sympathy. 
The  storms  and  sufferings  of  the  upper  spheres  are  appreci- 
ated only  by  the  lofty  spirits  who  inhabit  there.  In  every 
circumstance  we  can  only  be  judged  by  our  equals. 

Thus  poor  Augustine  found  herself  thrown  back  on  the 
horror  of  her  meditations,  in  the  cold  atmosphere  of  her 
home.  Study  was  indifferent  to  her,  since  study  had  not 
brought  her  back  her  husband's  heart.  Initiated  into  the 
secret  of  these  souls  of  fire,  but  bereft  of  their  resources, 
she  was  compelled  to  share  their  sorrows  without  sharing 
their  pleasures.  She  was  disgusted  with  the  world,  which 
to  her  seemed  mean  and  small  as  compared  with  the  inci- 
dents of  passion.  In  short,  her  life  was  a  failure. 

One  evening  an  idea  flashed  upon  her  that  lighted  up 
her  dark  grief  like  a  beam  from  heaven.  Such  an  idea 
co aid  never  have  smiled  on  a  heart  less  pure,  less  virtuous 
than  hers.  She  determined  to  go  to  the  Duchesse  de  Cari- 
gliano,^not  to  ask  her  to  give  her  back  her  husband's  heart, 
but  to  learn  the  arts  by  which  it  had  been  captured ;  to  en- 
gage the  interest  of  this  haughty  fine  lady  for  the  mother  of 
her  lover's  children;  to  appeal  to  her  and  make  her  the  in- 
strument of  her  future  happiness,  since  she  was  the  cause 
of  her  present  wretchedness. 

So  one  day  Augustine,  timid  as  she  was,  but  armed  with 
supernatural  courage,  got  into  her  carriage  at  two  in  the 
afternoon  to  try  for  admittance  to  the  boudoir  of  the  famous 


AT    THE   SIGN   OF   THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  77 

coquette,  who  was  never  visible  till  that  hour.  Madame  de 
Sommervieux  had  not  yet  seen  any  of  the  ancient  and  mag- 
nificent mansions  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain.  As  she 
made  her  way  through  the  stately  corridors,  the  handsome 
staircases,  the  vast  drawing-rooms — full  of  flowers,  though 
it  was  in  the  depth  of  winter,  and  decorated  with  the  taste 
peculiar  to  women  born  to  opulence  or  to  the  elegant  habits 
of  the  aristocracy,  Augustine  felt  a  terrible  clutch  at  her 
heart;  she  coveted  the  secrets  of  an  elegance  of  which  she 
had  never  had  an  idea;  she  breathed  an  air  of  grandeur 
which  explained  the  attraction  of  the  house  for  her  husband. 
When  she  reached  the  private  rooms  of  the  Duchesse  she 
was  filled  with  jealousy  and  a  sort  of  despair,  as  she  admired 
the  luxurious  arrangement  of  the  furniture,  the  draperies  and 
the  hangings.  Here  disorder  was  a  grace,  here  luxury  affected 
a  certain  contempt  of  splendor.  The  fragrance  that  floated 
in  the  warm  air  nattered  the  sense  of  smell  without  offending 
it.  The  accessories  of  the  rooms  were  in  harmony  with  a 
view,  through  plate-glass  windows,  of  the  lawns  in  a  garden 
planted  with  evergreen  trees.  It  was  all  bewitching,  and  the 
art  of  it  was  not  perceptible.  The  whole  spirit  of  the  mis- 
tress of  these  rooms  pervaded  the  drawing-room  where  Au- 
gustine awaited  her.  She  tried  to  divine  her  rival's  char- 
acter from  the  aspect  of  the  scattered  objects;  but  there 
was  here  something  as  impenetrable  in  the  disorder  as  in 
the  symmetry,  and  to  the  simple-minded  young  wife  all  was 
a  sealed  letter.  All  that  she  could  discern  was  that,  as  a 
woman,  the  Duchesse  was  a  superior  person.  Then  a  pain- 
ful thought  came  over  her. 

"Alas!  And  is  it  true,"  she  wondered,  "that  a  simple 
and  loving  heart  is  not  all-sufficient  to  an  artist;  that 
to  balance  the  weight  of  these  powerful  souls  they  need 
a  union  with  feminine  souls  of  a  strength  equal  to  their 
own?  If  I  had  been  brought  up  like  this  siren,  our 
weapons  at  least  might  have  been  equal  in  the  hour  of 
struggle." 

"But  I   am   not  at  home!"     The  sharp,   harsh  words, 


78  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

though  spoken  in  an  undertone  in  the  adjoining  boudoir, 
were  heard  by  Augustine,  and  her  heart  beat  violently. 

"The  lady  is  in  there,"  replied  the  maid. 

"You  are  an  idiot!  Show  her  in,"  replied  the  Duchesse, 
whose  voice  was  sweeter,  and  had  assumed  the  dulcet  tones 
of  politeness.  She  evidently  now  meant  to  be  heard. 

Augustine  shyly  entered  the  room.  At  the  end  of  the 
dainty  boudoir  she  saw  the  Duchesse  lounging  luxuriously 
on  an  ottoman  covered  with  brown  velvet  and  placed  in  the 
centre  of  a  sort  of  apse  outlined  by  soft  folds  of  white  muslin 
over  a  yellow  lining.  Ornaments  of  gilt  bronze,  arranged 
with  exquisite  taste,  enhanced  this  sort  of  dais,  under  which 
the  Duchesse  reclined  like  a  Greek  statue.  The  dark  hue  of 
the  velvet  gave  relief  to  every  fascinating  charm.  A  sub- 
dued light,  friendly  to  her  beauty,  fell  like  a  reflection  rather 
than  a  direct  illumination.  A  few  rare  flowers  raised  their 
perfumed  heads  from  costly  Sevres  vases.  At  the  moment 
when  this  picture  was  presented  to  Augustine's  astonished 
eyes,  she  was  approaching  so  noiselessly  that  she  caught  a 
glance  from  those  of  the  enchantress.  This  look  seemed  to 
say  to  some  one  whom  Augustine  did  not  at  first  perceive, 
"Stay;  you  will  see  a  pretty  woman,  and  make  her  visit  less 
of  a  bore. ' ' 

On  seeing  Augustine,  the  Duchesse  rose  and  made  her  sit 
down  by  her.  "And  to  what  do  I  owe  the  pleasure  of  this 
visit,  madame?"  she  said  with  a  most  gracious  smile. 

"Why  all  this  falseness?"  thought  Augustine,  replying 
only  with  a  bow. 

Her  silence  was  compulsory.  The  young  woman  saw 
before  her  a  superfluous  witness  of  the  scene.  This  per- 
sonage was,  of  all  the  Colonels  in  the  army,  the  youngest, 
the  most  fashionable,  and  the  finest  man.  His  face,  full  of 
life  and  youth,  but  already  expressive,  was  further  enhanced 
by  a  small  mustache  twirled  up  into  points,  and  as  black  as 
jet,  by  a  full  imperial,  by  whiskers  carefully  combed,  and 
a  forest  of  black  hair  in  some  disorder.  He  was  whisking  a 
riding  whip  with  an  air  of  ease  and  freedom  which  suited  his 


AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   OAT  AND    RACKET  79 

self-satisfied  expression  and  the  elegance  of  his  dress;  the 
ribbons  attached  to  his  buttonhole  were  carelessly  tied,  and 
he  seemed  to  pride  himself  much  more  on  his  smart  appear- 
ance than  on  his  courage.  Augustine  looked  at  the  Duchesse 
de  Carigliano,  and  indicated  the  Colonel  by  a  sidelong  glance. 
All  its  mute  appeal  was  understood. 

"Good-by,  then,  Monsieur  d'Aiglemont,  we  shall  meet 
in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne." 

These  words  were  spoken  by  the  siren  as  though  they 
were  the  result  of  an  agreement  made  before  Augustine's  ar- 
rival, and  she  winged  them  with  a  threatening  look  that  the 
officer  deserved  perhaps  for  the  admiration  he  showed  in  gaz- 
ing at  the  modest  flower,  which  contrasted  so  well  with  the 
haughty  Duchesse.  The  young  fop  bowed  in  silence,  turned 
on  the  heels  of  his  boots,  and  gracefully  quitted  the  boudoir. 
At  this  instant,  Augustine,  watching  her  rival,  whose  eyes 
seemed  to  follow  the  brilliant  officer,  detected  in  that  glance 
a  sentiment  of  which  the  transient  expression  is  known  to 
every  woman.  She  perceived  with  the  deepest  anguish  that 
her  visit  would  be  useless ;  this  lady,  full  of  artifice,  was  too 
greedy  of  homage  not  to  have  a  ruthless  heart. 

"Madame,"  said  Augustine  in  a  broken  voice,  "the  step 
I  am  about  to  take  will  seem  to  you  very  strange ;  but  there 
is  a  madness  of  despair  which  ought  to  excuse  anything.  I 
understand  only  too  well  why  Theodore  prefers  your  house 
to  any  other,  and  why  your  mind  has  so  much  power  over 
his.  Alas!  I  have  only  to  look  into  myself  to  find  more 
than  ample  reasons.  But  I  am  devoted  to  my  husband, 
madanie.  Two  years  of  tears  have  not  effaced  his  image 
from  my  heart,  though  I  have  lost  his.  In  my  folly  I  dared 
to  dream  of  a  contest  with  you;  and  I  have  come  to  you  to 
ask  you  by  what  means  I  may  triumph  over  yourself.  Oh, 
madame,"  cried  the  young  wife,  ardently  seizing  the  hand 
which  her  rival  allowed  her  to  hold,  "I  will  never  pray  to 
God  for  my  own  happiness  with  so  much  fervor  as  I  will 
beseech  Him.for  yours,  if  you  will  help  me  to  win  back  Som- 
mervieux's  regard — I  will  not  say  his  love.  I  have  no  hope 


80  BALZAC1 8   WORKS 

but  in  yon.  Ah !  tell  me  bow  you  could  please  him,  and 
make  him  forget  the  first  days —  At  these  words  Augus- 
tine broke  down,  suffocated  with  sobs  she  could  not  suppress. 
Ashamed  of  her  weakness,  she  hid  her  face  in  her  handker- 
chief, which  she  bathed  with  tears. 

"What  a  child  you  are,  my  dear  little  beauty!"  said  the 
Duchesse,  carried  away  by  the  novelty  of  such  a  scene,  and 
touched,  in  spite  of  herself,  at  receiving  such  homage  from 
the  most  perfect  virtue  perhaps  in  Paris.  She  took  the  young 
wife's  handkerchief,  and  herself  wiped  the  tears  from  her 
eyes,  soothing  her  by  a  few  monosyllables  murmured  with 
gracious  compassion.  After  a  moment's  silence  the  Duch- 
esse, grasping  poor  Augustine's  hands  in  both  her  own — 
hands  that  had  a  rare  character  of  dignity  and  powerful 
beauty — said  in  a  gentle  and  friendly  voice:  "My  first  warn- 
ing is  to  advise  you  not  to  weep  so  bitterly;  tears  are  disfig- 
uring. We  must  learn  to  deal  firmly  with  the  sorrows  that 
make  us  ill,  for  love  does  not  linger  long  by  a  sick-bed.  Mel- 
ancholy, at  first,  no  doubt,  lends  a  certain  attractive  grace, 
but  it  ends  by  dragging  the  features  and  blighting  the  love- 
liest face.  And  besides,  our  tyrants  are  so  vain  as  to  insist 
that  their  slaves  should  be  always  cheerful." 

"But,  madame,  it  is  not  in  my  power  not  to  feel.  How 
is  it  possible,  without  suffering  a  thousand  deaths,  to  see  the 
face  which  once  beamed  with  love  and  gladness  turn  chill, 
colorless,  and  indifferent?  I  cannot  control  my  heart!" 

*'So  much  the  worse,  sweet  child.  But  I  fancy  I  know 
all  your  story.  In  the  first  place,  if  your  husband  is  un- 
faithful to  you,  understand  clearly  that  I  am  not  his  accom- 
plice. If  I  was  anxious  to  have  him  in  my  drawing-room, 
it  was,  I  own,  out  of  vanity;  he  was  famous,  and  he  went 
nowhere.  I  like  you  too  much  already  to  tell  you  all  the 
mad  things  he  has  done  for  my  sake.  I  will  only  reveal 
one,  because  it  may  perhaps  help  us  to  bring  him  back  to 
you,  and  to  punish  him  for  the  audacity  of  his  behavior  to 
me.  He  will  end  by  compromising  me.  I  know  the  world 
too  well,  my  dear,  to  abandon  myself  to  the  discretion  of  a 


AT   THE   SIGN    OF   THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  81 

too  superior  man.  You  should  know  that  one  may  allow 
them  to  court  one,  but  marry  them — that  is  a  mistake !  We 
women  ought  to  admire  men  of  genius,  and  delight  in  them 
as  a  spectacle,  but  as  to  living  with  them?  Never. — No, 
no.  It  is  like  wanting  to  find  pleasure  in  inspecting  the 
machinery  of  the  Opera  instead  of  sitting  in  a  box  to  enjoy 
its  brilliant  illusions.  But  this  misfortune  has  fallen  on 
you,  my  poor  child,  has  it  not?  Well,  then,  you  must  try 
to  arm  yourself  against  tyranny." 

"Ah,  madame,  before  coming  in  here,  only  seeing  you 
as  I  came  in,  I  already  detected  some  arts  of  which  I  had 
no  suspicion." 

"Well,  come  and  see  me  sometimes,  and  it  will  not  be 
long  before  you  have  mastered  the  knowledge  of  these  trifles, 
important,  too,  in  their  way.  Outward  things  are,  to  fools, 
half  of  life ;  and  in  that  matter  more  than  one  clever  man  is 
a  fool,  in  spite  of  all  his  talent.  But  I  dare  wager  you  never 
could  refuse  your  Theodore  anything!" 

"How  refuse  anything,  madame,  if  one  loves  a  man  ?" 

"Poor  innocent,  I  could  adore  you  for  your  simplicity. 
You  should  know  that  the  more  we  love  the  less  we  should 
allow  a  man,  above  all,  a  husband,  to  see  the  whole  extent 
of  our  passion.  The  one  who  loves  most  is  tyrannized  over, 
and,  which  is  worse,  is  sooner  or  later  neglected.  The  one 
who  wishes  to  rule  should — •" 

"What,  madame,  must  I  then  dissimulate,  calculate,  be- 
come false,  form  an  artificial  character,  and  live  in  it  ?  How 
is  it  possible  to  live  in  such  a  way?  Can  you — "  she  hesi- 
tated; the  Duchesse  smiled. 

"My  dear  child, "  the  great  lady  went  on  in  a  serious  tone, 
"conjugal  happiness  has  in  all  times  been  a  speculation,  a 
business  demanding  particular  attention.  If  you  persist  in 
talking  passion  while  I  am  talking  marriage,  we  shall  soon 
cease  to  understand  each  other.  Listen  to  me,"  she  went 
on,  assuming  a  confidential  tone.  "I  have  been  in  the  way 
of  seeing  some  of  the  superior  men  of  our  day.  Those  who 
have  married  have  for  the  most  part  chosen  quite  insignifi- 


82  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

cant  wives.  Well,  those  wives  governed  them,  as  the  Em- 
peror governs  us ;  and  if  they  were  not  loved,  they  were  at 
least  respected.  I  like  secrets — especially  those  which  con- 
cern women — well  enough  to  have  amused  myself  by  seeking 
the  clew  to  the  riddle.  Well,  my  sweet  child,  those  worthy 
women  had  the  gift  of  analyzing  their  husband's  nature;  in- 
stead of  taking  fright,  like  you,  at  their  superiority,  they 
very  acutely  noted  the  qualities  they  lacked,  and  either  by 
possessing  those  qualities,  or  by  feigning  to  possess  them, 
they  found  means  of  making  such  a  handsome  display  of 
them  in  their  husbands'  eyes  that  in  the  end  they  impressed 
them.  Also,  I  must  tell  you,  all  these  souls  which  appear 
so  lofty  have  just  a  speck  of  madness  in  them,  which  we 
ought  to  know  how  to  take  advantage  of.  By  firmly  resolv- 
ing to  have  the  upper  hand  and  never  deviating  from  that 
aim,  by  bringing  all  our  actions  to  bear  on  it,  all  our  ideas, 
our  cajolery,  we  subjugate  these  eminently  capricious  na- 
tures, which,  by  the  very  mutability  of  their  thoughts,  lend 
us  the  means  of  influencing  them." 

"Good  heavens!"  cried  the  young  wife  in  dismay.  "And 
this  is  life.  It  is  a  warfare — " 

"In  which  we  must  always  threaten,"  said  the  Duchesse, 
laughing.  "Our  power  is  wholly  factitious.  And  we  must 
never  allow  a  man  to  despise  us;  it  is  impossible  to  recover 
from  such  a  descent  but  by  odious  manoeuvring.  Come," 
she  added,  "I  will  give  you  a  means  of  bringing  your  hus- 
band to  his  senses." 

She  rose  with  a  smile  to  guide  the  young  and  guileless 
apprentice  to  conjugal  arts  through  the  labyrinth  of  her  pal- 
ace. They  carne  to  a  back-staircase,  which  led  up  to  the 
reception  rooms.  As  Madame  de  Carigliano  pressed  the  se- 
cret spring-lock  of  the  door  she  stopped,  looking  at  Augus- 
tine with  an  inimitable  gleam  of  shrewdness  and  grace.  ' '  The 
Due  de  Carigliano  adores  me,"  said  she.  "Well,  he  dare  not 
enter  by  this  door  without  my  leave.  And  he  is  a  man  in 
the  habit  of  commanding  thousands  of  soldiers.  He  knows 
how  to  face  a  battery,  but  before  me — he  is  afraid!" 


AT   THE  SIGN  OF   THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  83 

Augustine  sighed.  They  entered  a  sumptuous  gallery, 
where  the  painter's  wife  was  led  by  the  Duchesse  up  to  the 
portrait  painted  by  Theodore  of  Mademoiselle  Gruillaume. 
On  seeing  it,  Augustine  uttered  a  cry. 

"I  knew  it  was  no  longer  in  my  house,"  she  said,  "but 
— here! — " 

"My  dear  child,  I  asked  for  it  merely  to  see  what  pitch 
of  idiocy  a  man  of  genius  may  attain  to.  Sooner  or  later  I 
should  have  returned  it  to  you,  for  I  never  expected  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  the  original  here  face  to  face  with  the 
copy.  While  we  finish  our  conversation  I  will  have  it  car- 
ried down  to  your  carriage.  And  if,  armed  with  such  a 
talisman,  you  are  not  your  husband's  mistress  for  a  hundred 
years,  you  are  not  a  woman,  and  you  deserve  your  fate." 

Augustine  kissed  the  Duchesse's  hand,  and  the  lady 
clasped  her  to  her  heart,  with  all  the  more  tenderness  be- 
cause she  would  forget  her  by  the  morrow.  This  scene 
might  perhaps  have  destroyed  forever  the  candor  and  pur- 
ity of  a  less  virtuous  woman  than  Augustine,  for  the  astute 
politics  of  the  higher  social  spheres  were  no  more  consonant 
to  Augustine  than  the  narrow  reasoning  of  Joseph  Lebas,  or 
Madame  Gruillaume's  vapid  morality.  Strange  are  the  re- 
sults of  the  false  positions  into  which  we  may  be  brought  by 
the  slightest  mistake  in  the  conduct  of  life !  Augustine  was 
like  an  Alpine  cowherd  surprised  by  an  avalanche;  if  he 
hesitates,  if  he  listens  to  the  shouts  of  his  comrades,  he  is 
almost  certainly  lost.  In  such  a  crisis  the  heart  steels  itself 
or  breaks. 

Madame  de  Sommervieux  returned  home  a  prey  to  such 
agitation  as  it  is  difficult  to  describe.  Her  conversation  with 
the  Duchesse  de  Carigliano  had  roused  in  her  mind  a  crowd 
of  contradictory  thoughts.  Like  the  sheep  in  the  fable,  full 
of  courage  in  the  wolf's  absence,  she  preached  to  herself, 
and  laid  down  admirable  plans  of  conduct;  she  devised  a 
thousand  coquettish  stratagems;  she  even  talked  to  her  hus- 
band, finding,  away  from  him,  all  the  springs  of  true  elo- 
quence which  never  desert  a  woman ;  then,  as  she  pictured 


84  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

to  herself  Theodore's  clear  and  steadfast  gaze,  she  began  to 
quake.  When  she  asked  whether  Monsieur  were  at  home 
her  voice  shook.  On  learning  that  he  would  not  be  in  to 
dinner,  she  felt  an  unaccountable  thrill  of  joy.  Like  a  crim- 
inal who  has  appealed  against  sentence  of  death,  a  respite, 
however  short,  seemed  to  her  a  lifetime.  She  placed  the 
portrait  in  her  room,  and  waited  for  her  husband  in  all  the 
agonies  of  hope.  That  this  venture  must  decide  her  future 
life,  she  felt  too  keenly  not  to  shiver  at  every  sound,  even 
the  low  ticking  of  the  clock,  which  seemed  to  aggravate  her 
terrors  by  doling  them  out  to  her.  She  tried  to  cheat  time 
by  various  devices.  The  idea  struck  her  of  dressing  in  a 
way  which  would  make  her  exactly  like  the  portrait.  Then, 
knowing  her  husband's  restless  temper,  she  had  her  room 
lighted  up  with  unusual  brightness,  feeling  sure  that  when 
lie  came  in  curiosity  would  bring  him  there  at  once.  Mid- 
night had  struck  when,  at  the  call  of  the  groom,  the  street 
gate  was  opened,  and  the  artist's  carriage  rumbled  in  over 
the  stones  of  the  silent  courtyard. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this  illumination  ?"  asked  The*o- 
dore  in  glad  tones,  as  he  came  into  her  room. 

Augustine  skilfully  seized  the  auspicious  moment;  she 
threw  herself  into  her  husband's  arms,  and  pointed  to  the  por- 
trait. The  artist  stood  rigid  as  a  rock,  and  his  eyes  turned 
alternately  on  Augustine,  on  the  accusing  dress.  The  fright- 
ened wife,  half-dead,  as  she  watched  her  husband's  change- 
ful brow — that  terrible  brow — saw  the  expressive  furrows 
gathering  like  clouds;  then  she  felt  her  blood  curdling  in 
her  veins  when,  with  a  glaring  look,  and  in  a  deep  hollow 
voice,  he  began  to  question  her: 

"Where  did  you  find  that  picture?" 

"The  Duchesse  de  Carigliano  returned  it  to  me." 

"You  asked  her  for  it?" 

"I  did  not  know  that  she  had  it." 

The  gentleness,  or  rather  the  exquisite  sweetness  of  this 
angel's  voice,  might  have  touched  a  cannibal,  but  not  an 
artist  in  the  clutches  of  wounded  vanity. 


AT   THE   SIGN   OF   THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  85 

"It  is  worthy  of  her!"  exclaimed  the  painter  in  a  voice 
of  thunder.  "I  will  be  revenged!"  he  cried,  striding  up 
and  down  the  room.  "She  shall  die  of  shame:  I  will  paint 
her !  Yes,  I  will  paint  her  as  Messalina  stealing  out  at  night 
from  the  palace  of  Claudius." 

"Theodore,"  said  a  faint  voice. 

"I  will  kill  her!" 

"My  dear— " 

"She  is  in  love  with  that  little  cavalry  colonel,  because  he 
rides  well — " 

"Theodore!" 

"Let  me  be!"  said  the  painter  in  a  tone  almost  like  a 
roar. 

It  would  be  odious  to  describe  the  whole  scene.  In  the 
end  the  frenzy  of  passion  prompted  the  artist  to  acts  and 
words  which  any  woman  not  so  young  as  Augustine  would 
have  ascribed  to  madness. 

At  eight  o'clock  next  morning  Madame  Gruillaume,  sur- 
prising her  daughter,  found  her  pale,  with  red  eyes,  her  hair 
in  disorder,  holding  a  handkerchief  soaked  with  tears,  while 
she  gazed  at  the  floor  strewn  with  the  torn  fragments  of  a 
dress  and  the  broken  pieces  of  a  large  gilt  picture-frame. 
Augustine,  almost  senseless  with  grief,  pointed  to  the 
wreck  with  a  gesture  of  deep  despair. 

"I  don't  know  that  the  loss  is  very  great!"  cried  the 
old  mistress  of  the  Cat  and  Racket.  "It  was  like  you,  no 
doubt;  but  I  am  told  that  there  is  a  man  on  the  Boulevard 
who  paints  lovely  portraits  for  fifty  crowns." 

"Oh,  mother!" 

"Poor  child,  you  are  quite  right,"  replied  Madame  Gruil- 
laume, who  misinterpreted  the  expression  of  her  daughter's 
glance  at  her.  "True,  my  child,  no  one  ever  can  love  you 
as  fondly  as  a  mother.  My  darling,  I  guess  it  all;  but  con- 
fide your  sorrows  to  me,  and  I  will  comfort  you.  Did  I  not 
tell  you  long  ago  that  the  man  was  mad!  Your  maid  has  told 
me  pretty  stories.  Why,  he  must  be  a  perfect  monster!" 

Augustine  laid  a  finger  on  her  white  lips,  as  if  to  implore 


86  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

a  moment's  silence.  During  this  dreadful  night  misery  had 
led  her  to  that  patient  resignation  which  in  mothers  and 
loving  wives  transcends  in  its  effects  all  human  energy, 
and  perhaps  reveals  in  the  heart  of  women  the  existence 
of  certain  chords  which  God  has  withheld  from  men. 

An  inscription  engraved  on  a  broken  column  in  the 
cemetery  at  Montmartre  states  that  Madame  de  Sommer- 
vieux  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven.  In  the  simple 
words  of  this  epitaph  one  of  the  timid  creature's  friends 
can  read  the  last  scene  of  a  tragedy.  Every  year,  on  the 
second  of  November,  the  solemn  day  of  the  dead,  he  never 
passes  this  youthful  monument  without  wondering  whether 
it  does  not  need  a  stronger  woman  than  Augustine  to  en- 
dure the  violent  embrace  of  genius  ? 

"The  humble  and  modest  flowers  that  bloom  in  the 
valley,"  he  reflects,  "perish  perhaps  when  they  are  trans- 
planted too  near  the  skies,  to  the  region  where  storms 
gather  and  the  sun  is  scorching." 


THE    SCEAUX    BALL 

(LE  BAL  DE  SCEAUX) 

To  Henri  de  Balzac,  his  brother  Honore 


CT*HE  COMTE  DE  FONTAINE,  head  of  one  of  the 
/  oldest  families  in  Poitou,  liad  served  the  Bourbon 
cause  with  intelligence  and  bravery  during  the  war 
in  La  Vendee  against  the  Republic.  After  having  escaped 
all  the  dangers  which  threatened  the  royalist  leaders  during 
this  stormy  period  of  modern  history,  he  was  wont  to  say  in 
jest,  "I  am  one  of  the  men  who  gave  themselves  to  be  killed 
on  the  steps  of  the  throne."  And  the  pleasantry  had  some 
truth  in  it,  as  spoken  by  a  man  left  for  dead  at  the  bloody 
battle  of  Les  Quatre  Chemins.  Though  ruined  by  confisca- 
tion, the  stanch  Vendeen  steadily  refused  the  lucrative  posts 
offered  to  him  by  the  Emperor  Napoleon.  Immovable  in 
his  aristocratic  faith,  he  had  blindly  obeyed  its  precepts 
when  he  thought  it  fitting  to  choose  a  companion  for  life. 
In  spite  of  the  blandishments  of  a  rich  but  revolutionary 
parvenu,  who  valued  the  alliance  at  a  high  figure,  he  mar- 
ried Mademoiselle  de  Kergarouet,  without  a  fortune,  but 
belonging  to  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  Brittany. 

When  the  second  revolution  burst  on  Monsieur  de  Fon- 
taine he  was  incumbered  with  a  large  family.  Though  it 
was  no  part  of  the  noble  gentleman's  views  to  solicit  favors, 
he  yielded  to  his  wife's  wish,  left  his  country  -estate,  of  which 
the  income  barely  sufficed  to  maintain  his  children,  and  came 
to  Paris.  Saddened  by  seeing  the  greediness  of  his  former 
comrades  in  the  rush  for  places  and  dignities  under  the  new 
Constitution,  he  was  about  to  return  to  his  property  when 
he  received  a  ministerial  despatch,  in  which  a  well-known 

(87) 


88  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

magnate  announced  to  him  his  nomination  as  marechal  de 
camp,  or  brigadier-general,  under  a  rule  which  allowed  the 
officers  of  the  Catholic  armies  to  count  the  twenty  sub- 
merged years  of  Louis  XVIII. 's  reign  as  years  of  service1. 
Some  days  later  he  further  received,  without  any  solicita- 
tion, ex  officio,  the  crosses  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  and  of 
Saint-Louis. 

Shaken  in  his  determination  by  these  successive  favors, 
due,  as  he  supposed,  to  the  monarch's  remembrance,  he  was 
no  longer  satisfied  with  taking  his  family,  as  he  had  piously 
done  every  Sunday,  to  cry  "Vive  le  Roi"  in  the  hall  of  the 
Tuileries  when  the  royal  family  passed  through  on  their  way 
to  chapel;  he  craved  the  favor  of  a  private  audience.  The 
audience,  at  once  granted,  was  in  no  sense  private.  The 
royal  drawing-room  was  full  of  old  adherents,  whose  pow- 
dered heads,  seen  from  above,  suggested  a  carpet  of  snow. 
There  the  Comte  met  some  old  friends,  who  received  him 
somewhat  coldly;  but  the  princes  he  thought  adorable,  an 
enthusiastic  expression  which  escaped  him  when  the  most 
gracious  of  his  masters,  to  whom  the  Comte  had  supposed 
himself  to  be  known  only  by  name,  came  to  shake  hands 
with  him,  and  spoke  of  him  as  the  most  thorough  Vende'en 
of  them  all.  Notwithstanding  this  ovation,  none  of  these 
august  persons  thought  of  inquiring  as  to  the  sum  of  his 
losses,  or  of  the  money  he  had  poured  so  generously  into 
the  chests  of  the  Catholic  regiments.  He  discovered,  a 
little  late,  that  he  had  made  war  at  his  own  cost.  Toward 
the  end  of  the  evening  he  thought  he  might  venture  on  a 
witty  allusion  to  the  state  of  his  affairs,  similar,  as  it  was, 
to  that  of  many  other  gentlemen.  His  Majesty  laughed 
heartily  enough;  any  speech  that  bore  the  hall-mark  of 
wit  was  certain  to  please  him;  but  he  nevertheless  replied 
with  one  of  those  royal  pleasantries  whose  sweetness  is 
more  formidable  than  the  anger  of  a  rebuke.  One  of  the 
King's  most  intimate  advisers  took  an  opportunity  of  going 
up  to  the  fortune-seeking  Vende'en,  and  made  him  under- 
stand by  a  keen  and  polite  hint  that  the  time  had  not  yet 


THE   SCEAUX   BALL  89 

come  for  settling  accounts  with  the  sovereign;  that  there 
were  bills  of  much  longer  standing  than  his  on  the  books, 
and  there,  no  doubt,  they  would  remain,  as  part  of  the 
history  of  the  Kevolution.  The  Count  prudently  with- 
drew from  the  venerable  group,  which  formed  a  respectful 
semicircle  before  the  august  family;  then,  having  extri- 
cated his  sword,  not  without  some  difficulty,  from  among 
the  lean  legs  which  had  got  mixed  up  with  it,  he  crossed 
the  courtyard  of  the  Tuileries  and  got  into  the  hackney 
cab  he  had  left  on  the  quay.  With  the  restive  spirit, 
which  is  peculiar  to  the  nobility  of  the  old  school,  in 
whom  still  survives  the  memory  of  the  League  and  the 
day  of  the  Barricades  (in  1588),  he  bewailed  himself  in  his 
cab,  loudly  enough  to  compromise  him,  over  the  change 
that  had  come  over  the  Court.  "Formerly,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "every  one  could  speak  freely  to  the  King  of  his 
own  little  affairs;  the  nobles  could  ask  him  a  favor,  or  for 
money,  when  it  suited  them,  and  nowadays  one  cannot  re- 
cover the  money  advanced  for  his  service  without  raising  a 
scandal !  By  Heaven !  the  cross  of  Saint-Louis  and  the  rank 
of  brigadier-general  will  not  make  good  the  three  hundred 
thousand  livres  I  have  spent,  out  and  out,  on  the  royal 
cause.  I  must  speak  to  the  King,  face  to  face,  in  his  own 
room. ' ' 

This  scene  cooled  Monsieur  de  Fontaine's  ardor  all  the 
more  effectually  because  his  requests  for  an  interview  were 
never  answered.  And,  indeed,  he  saw  the  upstarts  of  the 
Empire  obtaining  some  of  the  offices  reserved,  under  the  old 
monarchy,  for  the  highest  families. 

"All  is  lost!"  he  exclaimed  one  morning.  "The  King 
has  certainly  never  been  other  than  a  revolutionary.  But 
for  Monsieur,  who  never  derogates,  and  is  some  comfort  to 
his  faithful  adherents,  I  do  not  know  what  hands  the  crown 
of  France  might  not  fall  into  if  things  are  to  go  on  like  this. 
Their  cursed  constitutional  system  is  the  worst  possible  gov- 
ernment, and  can  never  suit  France.  Louis  XVIII.  and  Mon- 
sieur Beugnot  spoiled  everything  at  Saint  Ouen. " 


90  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

The  Count,  in  despair,  was  preparing  to  retire  to  his  es- 
tate, abandoning,  with  dignity,  all  claims  to  repayment. 
At  this  moment  the  events  of  the  20th  March  (1815)  gave 
warning  of  a  fresh  storm,  threatening  to  overwhelm  the 
legitimate  monarch  and  his  defenders.  Monsieur  de  Fon- 
taine, like  one  of  those  generous  souls  who  do  not  dismiss 
a  servant  in  a  torrent  of  rain,  borrowed  on  his  lands  to  fol- 
low the  routed  monarchy,  without  knowing  whether  this 
complicity  in  emigration  would  prove  more  propitious  to 
him  than  his  past  devotion.  But  when  he  perceived  thnt 
the  companions  of  the  King's  exile  were  in  higher  favor 
than  the  brave  men  who  had  protested,  sword  in  hand, 
against  the  establishment  of  the  republic,  he  may  perhaps 
have  hoped  to  derive  greater  profit  from  this  journey  into 
a  foreign  land  than  from  active  and  dangerous  service  in 
the  heart  of  his  own  country.  Nor  was  his  courtier-like 
calculation  one  of  those  rash  speculations  which  promise 
splendid  results  on  paper,  and  are  ruinous  in  effect.  He 
was — -to  quote  the  wittiest  and  most  successful  of  our  dip- 
lomats— one  of  the  faithful  five  hundred  who  shared  the 
exile  of  the  Court  at  Ghent,  and  one  of  the  fifty  thousand 
who  returned  with  it.  During  the  short  banishment  of 
royalty,  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  was  so  happy  as  to  be  em- 
ployed by  Louis  XVIII. ,  and  found  more  than  one  oppor- 
tunity of  giving  him  proofs  of  great  political  honesty  and 
sincere  attachment.  One  evening,  when  the  King  had 
nothing  better  to  do,  he  recalled  Monsieur  de  Fontaine's 
witticism  at  the  Tuileries.  The  old  Vende'en  did  not  let 
such  a  happy  chance  slip;  he  told  his  history  with  so  much 
vivacity  that  a  king,  who  never  forgot  anything,  might  re- 
member it  at  a  convenient  season.  The  royal  amateur  of 
literature  also  observed  the  elegant  style  given  to  some 
notes  which  the  discreet  gentleman  had  been  invited  to 
recast.  This  little  success  stamped  Monsieur  de  Fontaine 
on  the  King's  memory  as  one  of  the  loyal  servants  of  the 
Crown. 

At  the  second  restoration  the  Count  was  one  of  those 


THE   SCEAUX   BALL  91 

special  envoys  who  were  sent  throughout  the  departments 
charged  with  absolute  jurisdiction  over  the  leaders  of  re- 
volt; but  he  used  his  terrible  powers  with  moderation. 
As  soon  as  this  temporary  commission  was  ended,  the 
High  Provost  found  a  seat  in  the  Privy  Council,  became 
a  deputy,  spoke  little,  listened  much,  and  changed  his 
opinions  very  considerably.  Certain  circumstances,  un- 
known to  historians,  brought  him  into  such  intimate  rela- 
tions with  the  Sovereign,  that  one  day,  as  he  came  in,  the 
shrewd  monarch  addressed  him  thus:  "My  friend  Fon- 
taine, I  shall  take  care  never  to  appoint  you  to  be  direc- 
tor-general, or  minister.  Neither  you  nor  I,  as  employe's, 
could  keep  our  place  on  account  of  our  opinions.  Eepre- 
sentative  government  has  this  advantage:  it  saves  Us  the 
trouble  We  used  to  have,  of  dismissing  Our  Secretaries  of 
State.  Our  Council  is  a  perfect  inn-parlor,  whither  public 
opinion  sometimes  sends  strange  travellers;  however,  "We 
can  always  find  a  place  for  Our  faithful  adherents." 

This  ironical  speech  was  introductory  to  a  rescript  giv- 
ing Monsieur  de  Fontaine  an  appointment  as  administrator 
in  the  office  of  Crown  lands.  As  a  consequence  of  the  in- 
telligent attention  with  which  he  listened  to  his  royal 
Friend's  sarcasms,  his  name  always  rose  to  his  Majesty's 
lips  when  a  commission  was  to  be  appointed  of  which  the 
members  were  to  receive  a  handsome  salary.  He  had 
the  good  sense  to  hold  his  tongue  about  the  favor  with 
which  he  was  honored,  and  knew  how  to  entertain  the 
monarch  in  those  familiar  chats  in  which  Louis  XVIII. 
delighted  as  much  as  in  a  well-written  note,  by  his  bril- 
liant manner  of  repeating  political  anecdotes,  and  the  po- 
litical or  parliamentary  tittle-tattle — if  the  expression  may 
pass — which  at  that  time  was  rife.  It  is  well  known  that 
he  was  immensely  amused  by  every  detail  of  his  Oou- 
vernementabilite — a  word  adopted  by  his  facetious  Majesty. 

Thanks  to  the  Comte  de  Fontaine's  good  sense,  wit,  and 
tact,  every  member  of  his  numerous  family,  however  young, 
ended,  as  he  jestingly  told  his  Sovereign,  in  attaching  him- 


92  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

self  like  a  silkworm  to  the  leaves  of  the  Pay-List.  Thus, 
by  the  King's  intervention,  his  eldest  son  found  a  high  and 
fixed  position  as  a  lawyer.  The  second,  before  the  Kestora- 
tion  a  mere  captain,  was  appointed  to  the  command  of  a  legion 
on  the  return  from  Ghent;  then,  thanks  to  the  confusion  of 
1815,  when  the  regulations  were  evaded,  he  passed  into  the 
bodyguard,  returned  to  a  line  regiment,  and  found  himself, 
after  the  affair  of  the  Trocade*ro,  a  lieutenant-general  with 
a  commission  in  the  Guards.  The  youngest,  appointed  sous- 
prefet,  ere  long  became  a  legal  official  and  director  of  a  mu- 
nicipal board  of  the  city  of  Paris,  where  he  was  safe  from 
changes  in  the  Legislature.  These  bounties,  bestowed  with- 
out parade,  and  as  secret  as  the  favor  enjoyed  by  the  Count, 
fell  unperceived.  Though  the  father  and  his  three  sons  each 
had  sinecures  enough  to  enjoy  an  income  in  salaries  almost 
equal  to  that  of  a  chief  of  department,  their  political  good 
fortune  excited  no  envy.  In  those  early  days  of  the  con- 
stitutional system,  few  persons  had  very  precise  ideas  of  the 
peaceful  domain  of  the  civil  service,  where  astute  favorites 
managed  to  find  an  equivalent  for  the  demolished  abbeys. 
Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Fontaine,  who  till  lately  boasted  that 
he  had  not  read  the  Charter,  and  displayed  such  indignation 
at  the  greed  of  courtiers,  had,  before  long,  proved  to  his 
august  master  that  he  understood,  as  well  as  the  King  him- 
self, the  spirit  and  resources  of  the  representative  system. 
At  the  same  time,  notwithstanding  the  established  careers 
open  to  his  three  sons,  and  the  pecuniary  advantages  derived 
from  four  official  appointments,  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  was 
the  head  of  too  large  a  family  to  be  able  to  re-establish  his 
fortune  easily  and  rapidly. 

His  three  sons  were  rich,  in  prospects,  in  favor,  and  in 
talent;  but  he  had  three  daughters,  and  was  afraid  of  weary- 
ing the  monarch's  benevolence.  It  occurred  to  him  to  men- 
tion only  one  by  one,  these  virgins  eager  to  light  their 
torches.  The  King  had  too  much  good  taste  to  leave  his 
work  incomplete.  The  marriage  of  the  eldest  with  a  Eeceiver- 
General,  Planat  de  Baudry,  was  arranged  by  one  of  those 


THE   SCEAUX   BALL  93 

royal  speeches  which  cost  nothing  and  are  worth  millions. 
One  evening,  when  the  Sovereign  was  out  of  spirits,  he  smiled 
on  hearing  of  the  existence  of  another  Demoiselle  de  Fon- 
taine, for  whom  he  found  a  husband  in  the  person  of  a  young 
magistrate,  of  inferior  birth,  no  doubt,  but  wealthy,  and 
whom  he  created  Baron.  When,  the  year  after,  the  Ven- 
deen  spoke  of  Mademoiselle  Emilie  de  Fontaine,  the  King 
replied  in  his  thin,  sharp  tones,  "Amicus  Plato  sed  magis 
arnica  Natio."  Then,  a  few  days  later,  he  treated  his  "friend 
Fontaine"  to  a  quatrain,  harmless  enough,  which  he  styled 
an  epigram,  in  which  he  made  fun  of  these  three  daughters, 
so  skilfully  introduced,  under  the  form  of  a  trinity.  Nay, 
if  report  is  to  be  believed,  the  monarch  had  found  the  point 
of  the  jest  in  the  Unity  of  the  three  Divine  Persons. 

"If  your  Majesty  would  only  condescend  to  turn  the  epi- 
gram into  an  epithalamium?"  said  the  Comte,  trying  to  turn 
the  sally  to  good  account. 

"Though  I  see  the  rhyme  of  it,  I  fail  to  see  the  reason," 
retorted  the  King,  who  did  not  relish  any  pleasantry,  how- 
ever mild,  on  the  subject  of  his  poetry. 

From  that  day  his  intercourse  with  Monsieur  de  Fontaine 
showed  less  amenity.  Kings  enjoy  contradicting  more  than 
people  think.  Like  most  youngest  children,  Emilie  de  Fon- 
taine was  a  Benjamin  spoiled  by  almost  everybody.  The 
King's  coolness,  therefore,  caused  the  Count  all  the  more 
regret,  because  no  marriage  was  ever  so  difficult  to  arrange 
as  that  of  this  darling  daughter.  To  understand  all  the 
obstacles  we  must  make  our  way  into  the  fine  residence 
where  the  official  was  housed  at  the  expense  of  the  nation- 
Emilie  had  spent  her  childhood  on  the  family  estate,  enjoy- 
ing the  abundance  which  suffices  for  the  joys  of  early  youth; 
her  lightest  wishes  had  been  law  to  her  sisters,  her  brothers, 
her  mother,  and  even  her  father.  All  her  relations  doted  on 
her.  Having  come  to  years  of  discretion  just  when  her  family 
was  loaded  with  the  favors  of  fortune,  the  enchantment  of  life 
continued.  The  luxury  of  Paris  seemed  to  her  just  as  natural 
as  a  wealth  of  flowers  or  fruit,  or  as  the  rural  plenty  which 


94  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

had  been  the  joy  of  her  first  years.  Just  as  in  her  childhood 
she  had  never  been  thwarted  in  the  satisfaction  of  her  play- 
ful desires,  so  now,  at  fourteen,  she  was  still  obeyed  when 
she  rushed  into  the  whirl  of  fashion. 

Thus,  accustomed  by  degrees  to  the  enjoyment  of  money, 
elegance  of  dress,  of  gilded  drawing-rooms  and  fine  carriages, 
became  as  necessary  to  her  as  the  compliments  of  flattery, 
sincere  or  false,  and  the  festivities  and  vanities  of  court  life. 
Like  most  spoiled  children,  she  tyrannized  over  those  who 
loved  her,  and  kept  her  blandishments  for  those  who  were 
indifferent.  Her  faults  grew  with  her  growth,  and  her 
parents  were  to  gather  the  bitter  fruits  of  this  disastrous 
education.  At  the  age  of  nineteen  Bmilie  de  Fontaine  had 
not  yet  been  pleased  to  make  a  choice  from  among  the  many 
young  men  whom  her  father's  politics  brought  to  his  enter- 
tainments. Though  so  young,  she  asserted  in  society  all  the 
freedom  of  mind  that  a  married  woman  can  enjoy.  Her 
beauty  was  so  remarkable  that,  for  her,  to  appear  in  a  room 
was  to  be  its  queen;  but,  like  sovereigns,  she  had  no  friends, 
though  she  was  everywhere  the  object  of  attentions  to  which 
a  finer  nature  than  hers  might  perhaps  have  succumbed.  Not 
a  man,  not  even  an  old  man,  had  it  in  him  to  contradict  the 
opinions  of  a  young  girl  whose  lightest  look  could  rekindle 
love  in  the  coldest  heart. 

She  had  been  educated  with  a  care  which  her  sisters  had 
not  enjoyed;  painted  pretty  well,  spoke  Italian  and  English, 
and  played  the  piano  brilliantly;  her  voice,  trained  by  the 
best  masters,  had  a  ring  in  it  which  made  her  singing  irre- 
sistibly charming.  Clever,  and  intimate  with  every  branch 
of  literature,  she  might  have  made  folk  believe  that,  as  Mas- 
carille  says,  people  of  quality  come  into  the  world  knowing 
everything.  She  could  argue  fluently  on  Italian  or  Flemish 
painting,  on  the  Middle  Ages  or  the  Renaissance;  pronounced 
at  haphazard  on  books  new  or  old,  and  could  expose  the 
defects  of  a  work  with  a  cruelly  graceful  wit.  The  simplest 
thing  she  said  was  accepted  by  an  admiring  crowd  as  a  fetfah 
of  the  Sultan  by  the  Turks.  She  thus  dazzled  shallow  per- 


THE   SCEAUX   BALL  95 

sons ;  as  to  deeper  minds,  her  natural  tact  enabled  her  to 
discern  them,  and  for  them  she  put  forth  so  much  fascina- 
tion that,  under  cover  of  her  charms,  she  escaped  their  scru- 
tiny. This  enchanting  veneer  covered  a  careless  heart;  the 
opinion — common  to  many  young  girls — that  no  one  else 
dwelt  in  a  sphere  so  lofty  as  to  be  able  to  understand  the 
merits  of  her  soul;  and  a  pride  based  no  less  on  her  birth 
than  on  her  beauty.  In  the  absence  of  the  overwhelming 
sentiment  which,  sooner  or  later,  works  havoc  in  a  woman's 
heart,  she  spent  her  young  ardor  in  an  immoderate  love  of 
distinctions,  and  expressed  the  deepest  contempt  for  persons 
of  inferior  birth.  Supremely  impertinent  to  all  newly-created 
nobility,  she  made  every  effort  to  get  her  parents  recognized 
as  equals  by  the  most  illustrious  families  of  the  Saint-Ger- 
main quarter. 

These  sentiments  had  not  escaped  the  observing  eye  of 
Monsieur  de  Fontaine,  who  more  than  once,  when  his  two 
elder  girls  were  married,  had  smarted  under  Emilie's  sarcasm. 
Logical  readers  will  be  surprised  to  see  the  old  Koyalist  be- 
stowing his  eldest  daughter  on  a  Receiver- General,  possessed, 
indeed,  of  some  old  hereditary  estates,  but  whose  name  was 
not  preceded  by  the  little  word  to  which  the  throne  owed  so 
many  partisans,  and  his  second  to  a  magistrate  too  lately 
Baronified  to  obscure  the  fact  that  his  father  had  sold  fire- 
wood. This  noteworthy  change  in  the  ideas  of  a  noble  on 
the  verge  of  his  sixtieth  year — an  age  when  men  rarely  re- 
nounce their  convictions — was  due  not  merely  to  his  unfor- 
tunate residence  in  the  modern  Babylon,  where,  sooner  or 
later,  country  folk  all  get  their  corners  rubbed  down;  the 
Cornte  de  Fontaine's  new  political  conscience  was  also  a 
result  of  the  King's  advice  and  friendship.  The  philosoph- 
ical prince  had  taken  pleasure  in  converting  the  Vende'en  to 
the  ideas  required  by  the  advance  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
and  the  new  aspect  of  the  Monarchy.  Louis  XVIII.  aimed 
at  fusing  parties  as  Napoleon  had  fused  things  and  men. 
The  legitimate  King,  who  was  not  less  clever  perhaps  than 
his  rival,  acted  in  a  contrary  direction.  The  last  head  of  the 


96  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

House  of  Bourbon  was  just  as  eager  to  satisfy  the  third  estate 
and  the  creations  of  the  Empire,  by  curbing  the  clergy,  as 
the  first  of  the  Napoleons  had  been  to  attract  the  grand  old 
nobility,  or  to  endow  the  Church.  The  Privy  Councillor, 
being  in  the  secret  of  these  royal  projects,  had  insensibly 
become  one  of  the  most  prudent  and  influential  leaders  of 
that  moderate  party  which  most  desired  a  fusion  of  opinion 
in  the  interests  of  the  nation.  He  preached  the  expensive 
doctrines  of  constitutional  government,  and  lent  all  his 
weight  to  encourage  the  political  see-saw  which  enabled  his 
master  to  rule  France  in  the  midst  of  storms.  Perhaps  Mon- 
sieur de  Fontaine  hoped  that  one  of  the  sudden  gusts  of  legis- 
lation, whose  unexpected  efforts  then  startled  the  oldest 
politicians,  might  carry  him  up  to  the  rank  of  peer.  One 
of  his  most  rigid  principles  was  to  recognize  no  nobility  in 
France  but  that  of  the  peerage — the  only  families  that  might 
enjoy  any  privileges. 

"A  nobility  bereft  of  privileges,"  he  would  say,  "is  a 
tool  without  a  handle. ' ' 

As  far  from  Lafayette's  party  as  he  was  from  La  Bour- 
donnaye's,  he  ardently  engaged  in  the  task  of  general  recon- 
ciliation, which  was  to  result  in  a  new  era  and  splendid  for- 
tunes for  France.  He  strove  to  convince  the  families  who 
frequented  his  drawing-room,  or  those  whom  he  visited,  how 
few  favorable  openings  would  henceforth  be  offered  by  a 
civil  or  military  career.  He  urged  mothers  to  give  their 
boys  a  start  in  independent  and  industrial  professions,  ex- 
plaining that  military  posts  and  high  Government  appoint- 
ments must  at  last  pertain,  in  a  quite  constitutional  order, 
to  the  younger  sons  of  members  of  the  peerage.  According 
to  him,  the  people  had  conquered  a  sufficiently  large  share 
in  practical  government  by  its  elective  assembly,  its  appoint- 
ments to  law-offices,  and  those  of  the  exchequer,  which,  said 
he,  would  always,  as  heretofore,  be  the  natural  right  of  the 
distinguished  men  of  the  third  estate. 

These  new  notions  of  the  head  of  the  Fontaines,  and  the 
prudent  matches  for  his  elder  girls  to  which  they  had  Ied7 


THE   SCEAUX   BALL  97 

met  with  strong  resistance  in  the  bosom  of  his  family.  The 
Comtesse  de  Fontaine  remained  faithful  to  the  ancient  beliefs 
which  no  woman  could  disown,  who,  through  her  mother, 
belonged  to  the  Kohans.  Although  she  had  for  a  while 
opposed  the  happiness  and  fortune  awaiting  her  two  elder 
girls,  she  yielded  to  those  private  considerations  which  hus- 
band and  wife  confide  to  each  other  when  their  heads  are 
resting  on  the  same  pillow.  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  calmly 
pointed  out  to  his  wife,  by  exact  arithmetic,  that  their  resi- 
dence in  Paris,  the  necessity  for  entertaining,  the  magnifi- 
cence of  the  house  which  made  up  to  them  now  for  the  priva- 
tions so  bravely  shared  in  La  Vendee,  and  the  expenses  of 
their  sons,  swallowed  up  the  chief  part  of  their  income  from 
salaries.  They  must  therefore  seize,  as  a  boon  from  heaven, 
the  opportunities  which  offered  for  settling  their  girls  with 
such  wealth.  Would  they  not  some  day  enjoy  sixty — eighty 
— a  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year?  Such  advantageous 
matches  were  not  to  be  met  with  every  day  for  girls  without 
a  portion.  Again,  it  was  time  that  they  should  begin  to 
think  of  economizing,  to  add  to  the  estate  of  Fontaine,  and 
re-establish  the  old  territorial  fortune  of  the  family.  The 
Comtesse  yielded  to  such  cogent  arguments,  as  every  mother 
would  have  done  in  her  place,  though  perhaps  with  a  better 
grace;  but  she  declared  that  Emilie,  at  any  rate,  should 
marry  in  such  a  way  as  to  satisfy  the  pride  she  had  unfor- 
tunately contributed  to  foster  in  the  girl's  young  soul. 

Thus  events,  which  ought  to  have  brought  joy  into  the 
family,  had  introduced  a  small  leaven  of  discord.  The 
Receiver-General  and  the  young  lawyer  were  the  objects 
of  a  ceremonious  formality  which  the  Comtesse  and  Emilie 
contrived  to  create.  This  etiquette  soon  found  even  ampler 
opportunity  for  the  display  of  domestic  tyranny;  for  Lieu- 
tenant-General de  Fontaine  married  Mademoiselle  Mongenod, 
the  daughter  of  a  rich  banker;  the  President  very  sensibly 
found  a  wife  in  a  young  lady  whose  father,  twice  or  thrice 
a  millionnaire,  had  traded  in  salt;  and  the  third  brother, 
faithful  to  his  plebeian  doctrines,  married  Mademoiselle 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC  5. 


98  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

Grossete'te,  the  only  daughter  of  the  Receiver-General  at 
Bourges.  The  three  sisters-in-law  and  the  two  brothers-in- 
law  found  the  high  sphere  of  political  bigwigs,  and  the 
drawing-rooms  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  so  full  of 
charm  and  of  personal  advantages  that  they  united  in  form- 
ing a  little  court  round  the  overbearing  Emilie.  This  treaty 
between  interest  and  pride  was  not,  however,  so  firmly 
cemented  but  that  the  young  despot  was,  not  infrequently, 
the  cause  of  revolts  in  her  little  realm.  Scenes,  which  the 
highest  circles  would  not  have  disowned,  kept  up  a  sarcastic 
temper  among  all  the  members  of  this  powerful  family;  and 
this,  without  seriously  diminishing  the  regard  they  professed 
in  public,  degenerated  sometimes  in  private  into  sentiments 
far  from  charitable.  Thus  the  Lieutenant-General's  wife, 
having  become  a  Baronne,  thought  herself  quite  as  noble 
as  a  Kergarouet,  and  imagined  that  her  good  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  a  year  gave  her  the  right  to  be  as  impertinent 
as  her  sister-in-law  Emilie,  whom  she  would  sometimes  wish 
to  see  happily  married,  as  she  announced  that  the  daughter 
of  some  peer  of  France  had  married  Monsieur  So-and-so  with 
no  title  to  his  name.  The  Vicomtesse  de  Fontaine  amused 
herself  by  eclipsing  Emilie  in  the  taste  and  magnificence  that 
were  conspicuous  in  her  dress,  her  furniture,  and  her  car- 
riages. The  satirical  spirit  in  which  her  brothers  and  sisters 
sometimes  received  the  claims  avowed  by  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine  roused  her  to  wrath  that  a  perfect  hailstorm  of  sharp 
sayings  could  hardly  mitigate.  So  when  the  head  of  the 
family  felt  a  slight  chill  in  the  King's  tacit  and  precarious 
friendship,  he  trembled  all  the  more  because,  as  a  result  of 
her  sisters'  defiant  mockery,  his  favorite  daughter  had  never 
looked  so  high. 

In  the  midst  of  these  circumstances,  and  at  a  moment 
when  this  petty  domestic  warfare  had  become  serious,  the 
monarch,  whose  favor  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  still  hoped  to 
regain,  was  attacked  by  the  malady  of  which  he  was  to  die. 
The  great  political  chief,  who  knew  so  well  how  to  steer  his 
bark  in  the  midst  of  tempests,  soon  succumbed.  Certain 


THE   SCEAUX   BALL  99 

then  of  favors  to  come,  the  Comte  de  Fontaine  made  every 
effort  to  collect  the  elite  of  marrying  men  about  his  youngest 
daughter.  Those  who  may  have  tried  to  solve  the  difficult 
problem  of  settling  a  haughty  and  capricious  girl  will  under- 
stand the  trouble  taken  by  the  unlucky  father.  Such  an 
affair,  carried  out  to  the  liking  of  his  beloved  child,  would 
worthily  crown  the  career  the  Count  had  followed  for  these 
ten  years  at  Paris.  From  the  way  in  which  his  family 
claimed  salaries  under  every  department,  it  might  be  com- 
pared with  the  House  of  Austria,  which,  by  intermarriage, 
threatens  to  pervade  Europe.  The  old  Vende"en  was  not  to 
be  discouraged  in  bringing  forward  suitors,  so  much  had 
he  his  daughter's  happiness  at  heart,  but  nothing  could  be 
more  absurd  than  the  way  in  which  the  impertinent  young 
thing  pronounced  her  verdicts  and  judged  the  merits  of  her 
adorers.  It  might  have  been  supposed  that,  like  a  princess 
in  the  "Arabian  Nights,"  Emilie  was  rich  enough  and  beau- 
tiful enough  to  choose  from  among  all  the  princes  in  the 
world.  Her  objections  were  each  more  preposterous  than 
the  last:  one  had  too  thick  knees  and  was  bow-legged,  an- 
other was  short-sighted,  this  one's  name  was  Durand,  that 
one  limped,  and  almost  all  were  too  fat.  Livelier,  more  at- 
tractive, and  gayer  than  ever  after  dismissing  two  or  three 
suitors,  she  rushed  into  the  festivities  of  the  winter  season, 
and  to  balls,  where  her  keen  eyes  criticised  the  celebrities 
of  the  day,  delighting  in  encouraging  proposals  which  she 
invariably  rejected. 

Nature  had  bestowed  on  her  all  the  advantages  needed 
for  playing  the  part  of  Celimene.  Tall  and  slight,  Emilie 
de  Fontaine  could  assume  a  dignified  or  a  frolicsome  mien  at 
her  will.  Her  neck  was  rather  long,  allowing  her  to  affect 
beautiful  attitudes  of  scorn  and  impertinence.  She  had  cul- 
tivated a  large  variety  of  those  turns  of  the  head  and  feminine 
gestures  which  emphasize  so  cruelly  or  so  happily  a  hint  or 
a  smile.  Fine  black  hair,  thick  and  strongly-arched  eye- 
brows, lent  her  countenance  an  expression  of  pride,  to  which 
her  coquettish  instincts  and  her  mirror  had  taught  her  to  add 


100  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

terror  by  a  stare,  or  gentleness  by  the  softness  of  her  gaze, 
by  the  set  or  the  gracious  curve  of  her  lips,  by  the  coldness 
or  the  sweetness  of  her  smile.  When  Emilie  meant  to  con- 
quer a  heart,  her  pure  voice  did  not  lack  melody ;  but  she 
could  also  give  it  a  sort  of  curt  clearness  when  she  was 
minded  to  paralyze  a  partner's  indiscreet  tongue.  Her 
colorless  face  and  alabaster  brow  were  like  the  limpid  sur- 
face of  a  lake,  which  by  turns  is  rippled  by  the  impulse  of 
a  breeze  and  recovers  its  glad  serenity  when  the  air  is  still. 
More  than  one  young  man,  a  victim  to  her  scorn,  accused 
her  of  acting  a  part;  but  she  justified  herself  by  inspiring 
her  detractors  with  the  desire  to  please  her,  and  then  sub- 
jecting them  to  all  her  most  contemptuous  caprice.  Among 
the  young  girls  of  fashion,  not  one  knew  better  than  she  how 
to  assume  an  air  of  reserve  when  a  man  of  talent  was  intro- 
duced to  her,  or  how  to  display  the  insulting  politeness  which 
treats  an  equal  as  an  inferior,  and  to  pour  out  her  imperti- 
nence on  all  who  tried  to  hold  their  heads  on  a  level  with 
hers.  Wherever  she  went  she  seemed  to  be  accepting  hom- 
age rather  than  compliments,  and  even  in  a  princess  her  airs 
and  manner  would  have  transformed  the  chair  on  which  she 
sat  into  an  imperial  throne. 

Monsieur  de  Fontaine  discovered  too  late  how  utterly  the 
education  of  the  daughter  he  loved  had  been  ruined  by  the 
tender  devotion  of  the  whole  family.  The  admiration  which 
the  world  is  at  first  ready  to  bestow  on  a  young  girl,  but  for 
which,  sooner  or  later,  it  takes  its  revenge,  had  added  to 
Emilie' s  pride  and  increased  her  self-confidence.  Universal 
subservience  had  developed  in  her  the  selfishness  natural  to 
spoiled  children,  who,  like  kings,  make  a  plaything  of  every- 
thing that  comes  to  hand.  As  yet  the  graces  of  youth  and 
the  charms  of  talent  hid  these  faults  from  every  eye ;  faults 
all  the  more  odious  in  a  woman,  since  she  can  only  please 
by  self-sacrifice  and  unselfishness ;  but  nothing  escapes  the 
eye  of  a  good  father,  and  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  often  tried 
to  explain  to  his  daughter  the  more  important  pages  of  the 
mysterious  book  of  life.  Vain  effort!  He  had  to  lament 


THE   SGEAUX  BALL  101 

his  daughter's  capricious  indocility  and  ironical  shrewdness 
too  often  to  persevere  in  a  task  so  difficult  as  that  of  correct- 
ing an  ill-disposed  nature.  He  contented  himself  with  giv- 
ing her  from  time  to  time  some  gentle  and  kind  advice ;  but 
he  had  the  sorrow  of  seeing  his  tenderest  words  slide  from 
his  daughter's  heart  as  if  it  were  of  marble.  A  father's  eyes 
are  slow  to  be  unsealed,  and  it  needed  more  than  one  experi- 
ence before  the  old  Royalist  perceived  that  his  daughter's 
rare  caresses  were  bestowed  on  him  with  an  air  of  conde- 
scension. She  was  like  young  children,  who  seem  to  say 
to  their  mother,  "Make  haste  to  kiss  me,  that  I  may  go  to 
play. ' '  In  short,  Emilie  vouchsafed  to  be  fond  of  her  par- 
ents. But  often,  by  those  sudden  whims,  which  seem  in- 
explicable in  young  girls,  she  kept  aloof  and  scarcely  ever 
appeared;  she  complained  of  having  to  share  her  father's 
and  mother's  heart  with  too  many  people;  she  was  jealous 
of  every  one,  even  of  her  brothers  and  sisters.  Then,  after 
creating  a  desert  about  her,  the  strange  girl  accused  all  nat- 
ure of  her  unreal  solitude  and  her  wilful  griefs.  Strong  in 
the  experience  of  her  twenty  years,  she  blamed  fate,  because, 
not  knowing  that  the  mainspring  of  happiness  is  in  ourselves, 
she  demanded  it  of  the  circumstances  of  life.  She  would 
have  fled  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  escape  a  marriage  such 
as  those  of  her  two  sisters,  and  nevertheless  her  heart  was 
full  of  horrible  jealousy  at  seeing  them  married,  rich,  and 
happy.  In  short,  she  sometimes  led  her  mother — who  was 
as  much  a  victim  to  her  vagaries  as  Monsieur  de  Fontaine 
— to  suspect  that  she  had  a  touch  of  madness. 

But  such  aberrations  are  quite  explicable;  nothing  is 
commoner  than  this  unconfessed  pride  developed  in  the 
heart  of  young  girls  belonging  to  families  high  in  the  so- 
cial scale,  and  gifted  by  nature  with  great  beauty.  They 
are  almost  all  convinced  that  their  mothers,  now  forty  or 
fifty  years  of  age,  can  neither  sympathize  with  their  young 
souls  nor  conceive  of  their  imaginings.  They  fancy  that 
most  mothers,  jealous  of  their  girls,  want  to  dress  them  in 
their  own  way  with  the  premeditated  purpose  of  eclipsing 


102  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

them  or  robbing  them  of  admiration.  Hence,  often,  secret 
tears  and  dumb  revolt  against  supposed  tyranny.  In  the 
midst  of  these  woes,  which  become  very  real  though  built 
on  an  imaginary  basis,  they  have  also  a  mania  for  compos- 
ing a  scheme  of  life,  while  casting  for  themselves  a  brilliant 
horoscope;  their  magic  consists  in  taking  their  dreams  for 
reality;  secretly,  in  their  long  meditations,  they  resolve  to 
give  their  heart  and  hand  to  none  but  a  man  possessing  this 
or  the  other  qualification ;  and  they  paint  in  fancy  a  model 
to  which,  whether  or  no,  the  future  lover  must  correspond. 
After  some  little  experience  of  life,  and  the  serious  reflec- 
tions that  come  with  years,  by  dint  of  seeing  the  world  and 
its  prosaic  round,  by  dint  of  observing  unhappy  examples, 
the  brilliant  hues  of  their  ideal  are  extinguished.  Then,  one 
fine  day,  in  the  course  of  events,  they  are  quite  astonished 
to  find  themselves  happy  without  the  nuptial  poetry  of  their 
day-dreams.  It  was  on  the  strength  of  that  poetry  that 
Mademoiselle  Bmilie  de  Fontaine,  in  her  slender  wisdom, 
had  drawn  up  a  programme  to  which  a  suitor  must  conform 
to  be  accepted.  Hence  her  disdain  and  sarcasm. 

"Though  young  and  of  an  ancient  family,  he  must  be  a 
peer  of  France,"  said  she  to  herself.  "I  could  not  bear  not 
to  see  my  coat-of-arms  on  the  panels  of  my  carriage  among 
the  folds  of  azure  mantling,  not  to  drive  like  the  princes 
down  the  broad  walk  of  the  Champs  Elysees  on  the  days  of 
Longchamps  in  Holy  Week.  Besides,  my  father  says  that 
it  will  some  day  be  the  highest  dignity  in  France.  He  must 
be  a  soldier — but  I  reserve  the  right  of  making  him  retire; 
and  he  must  bear  an  Order,  that  the  sentries  may  present 
arms  to  us." 

And  these  rare  qualifications  would  count  for  nothing  if 
this  creature  of  fancy  had  not  a  most  amiable  temper,  a  fine 
figure,  intelligence,  and,  above  all,  if  he  were  not  slender. 
To  be  lean,  a  personal  grace  which  is  but  fugitive,  especially 
under  a  representative  government,  was  an  indispensable  con- 
dition. Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  had  an  ideal  standard 
which  was  to  be  the  model.  A  young  man  who  at  the  first 


THE   SCEAUX   BALL  103 

glance  did  not  fulfil  the  requisite  conditions  did  not  even 
get  a  second  look. 

"Grood  Heavens!  see  how  fat  he  is!"  was  with  her  the 
utmost  expression  of  contempt. 

To  hear  her,  people  of  respectable  corpulence  were  in- 
capable of  sentiment,  bad  husbands,  and  unfit  for  civilized 
society.  Though  it  is  esteemed  a  beauty  in  the  East,  to  be 
fat  seemed  to  her  a  misfortune  for  a  woman;  but  in  a  man 
it  was  a  crime.  These  paradoxical  views  were  amusing, 
thanks  to  a  certain  liveliness  of  rhetoric.  The  Count  felt 
nevertheless  that  by  and  by  his  daughter's  affectations,  of 
which  the  absurdity  would  be  evident  to  some  women  who 
were  not  less  clear-sighted  than  merciless,  would  inevitably 
become  a  subject  of  constant  ridicule.  He  feared  lest  her 
eccentric  notions  should  deviate  into  bad  style.  He  trem- 
bled to  think  that  the  pitiless  world  might  already  be  laugh- 
ing at  a  young  woman  who  remained  so  long  on  the  stage 
without  arriving  at  any  conclusion  of  the  drama  she  was 
playing.  More  than  one  actor  in  it,  disgusted  by  a  refusal, 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  the  slightest  turn  of  ill-luck  to  take 
his  revenge.  The  indifferent,  the  lookers-on  were  beginning 
to  weary  of  it;  admiration  is  always  exhausting  to  human 
beings.  The  old  Vendeen  knew  better  than  any  one  that  if 
there  is  an  art  in  choosing  the  right  moment  for  coming  for- 
ward on  the  boards  of  the  world,  on  those  of  the  Court,  in 
a  drawing-room  or  on  the  stage,  it  is  still  more  difficult  to 
quit  them  in  the  nick  of  time.  So  during  the  first  winter 
after  the  accession  of  Charles  X.,  he  redoubled  his  efforts, 
seconded  by  his  three  sons  and  his  sons-in-law,  to  assemble 
in  the  rooms  of  his  official  residence  the  best  matches  which 
Paris  and  the  various  deputations  from  departments  could 
offer.  The  splendor  of  his  entertainments,  the  luxury  of 
his  dining-room,  and  his  dinners,  fragrant  with  truffles,  ri- 
valled the  famous  banquets  by  which  the  ministers  of  that 
time  secured  the  vote  of  their  parliamentary  recruits. 

The  Honorable  Deputy  was  consequently  pointed  at  as 
a  most  influential  corrupter  of  the  legislative  honesty  of  the 


104  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

illustrious  Chamber  that  was  dying  as  it  would  seem  of  in- 
digestion. A  whimsical  result!  his  efforts  to  get  his  daugh- 
ter married  secured  him  a  splendid  popularity.  He  perhaps 
found  some  covert  advantage  in  selling  his  truffles  twice  over. 
This  accusation,  started  by  certain  mocking  Liberals,  who 
made  up  by  their  flow  of  words  for  their  small  following  in 
the  Chamber,  was  not  a  success.  The  Poitevin  gentleman 
had  always  been  so  noble  and  so  honorable  that  he  was  not 
once  the  object  of  those  epigrams  which  the  malicious  jour- 
nalism of  the  day  hurled  at  the  three  hundred  votes  of  the 
Centre,  at  the  Ministers,  the  cooks,  the  Di rectors- General, 
the  princely  Amphitryons,  and  the  official  supporters  of  the 
Villele  Ministry. 

At  the  close  of  this  campaign,  during  which  Monsieur  de 
Fontaine  had  on  several  occasions  brought  out  all  his  forces, 
he  believed  that  this  time  the  procession  of  suitors  would  not 
be  a  mere  dissolving  view  in  his  daughter's  eyes;  that  it  was 
time  she  should  make  up  her  mind.  He  felt  a  certain  in- 
ward satisfaction  at  having  well  fulfilled  his  duty  as  a  father. 
And  having  left  no  stone  unturned,  he  hoped  that,  among 
so  many  hearts  laid  at  Emilie's  feet,  there  might  be  one  to 
which  her  caprice  might  give  a  preference.  Incapable  of 
repeating  such  an  effort,  and  tired,  too,  of  his  daughter's 
conduct,  one  morning,  toward  the  end  of  Lent,  when  the 
business  at  the  Chamber  did  not  demand  his  vote,  he  deter- 
mined to  ask  what  her  views  were.  While  his  valet  was 
artistically  decorating  his  bald  yellow  head  with  the  delta 
of  powder  which,  with  the  hanging  "ailes  de  pigeon,"  com- 
pleted his  venerable  style  of  hairdressing,  Emilie's  father, 
not  without  some  secret  misgivings,  told  his  old  servant  to 
go  and  desire  the  haughty  damsel  to  appear  in  the  presence 
of  the  head  of  the  family. 

"Joseph,"  he  added,  when  his  hair  was  dressed,  "take 
away  that  towel,  draw  back  the  curtains,  put  those  chairs 
square,  shake  the  rug,  and  lay  it  quite  straight.  Dust  every- 
thing.— Now,  air  the  room  a  little  by  opening  the  window." 

The  Count  multiplied  his  orders,  putting  Joseph  out  of 


THE   SCEAUX   BALL  105 

breath,  and  the  old  servant,  understanding  his  master's  in- 
tentions, aired  and  tidied  the  room,  of  course  the  least  cared 
for  of  any  in  the  house,  and  succeeded  in  giving  a  look  of 
harmony  to  the  files  of  bills,  the  letter-boxes,  the  books  and 
furniture  of  this  sanctum,  where  the  interests  of  the  royal 
demesnes  were  debated  over.  When  Joseph  had  reduced 
this  chaos  to  some  sort  of  order,  and  brought  to  the  front 
such  things  as  might  be  most  pleasing  to  the  eye,  as  if  it 
were  a  shop  front,  or  such  as  by  their  color  might  give  the 
effect  of  a  kind  of  official  poetry,  he  stood  for  a  minute  in 
the  midst  of  the  labyrinth  of  papers  piled  in  some  places 
even  on  the  floor,  admired  his  handiwork,  jerked  his  head, 
and  went. 

The  anxious  sinecure- holder  did  not  share  his  retainer's 
favorable  opinion.  Before  seating  himself  in  his  deep  chair, 
whose  rounded  back  screened  him  from  draughts,  he  looked 
round  him  doubtfully,  examined  his  dressing-gown  with  a 
hostile  expression,  shook  off  a  few  grains  of  snuff,  carefully 
wiped  his  nose,  arranged  the  tongs  and  shovel,  made  the  fire, 
pulled  up  the  heels  of  his  slippers,  pulled  out  his  little  queue 
of  hair  which  had  lodged  horizontally  between  the  collar  of 
his  waistcoat  and  that  of  his  dressing-gown,  restoring  it  to 
its  perpendicular  position;  then  he  swept  up  the  ashes  of  the 
hearth,  which  bore  witness  to  a  persistent  catarrh.  Finally, 
the  old  man  did  not  settle  himself  till  he  had  once  more 
looked  all  over  the  room,  hoping  that  nothing  could  give 
occasion  to  the  saucy  and  impertinent  remarks  with  which 
his  daughter  was  apt  to  answer  his  good  advice.  On  this 
occasion  he  was  anxious  not  to  compromise  his  dignity  as  a 
father.  He  daintily  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  cleared  his  throat 
two  or  three  times,  as  if  he  were  about  to  demand  a  count 
out  of  the  House;  then  he  heard  his  daughter's  light  step, 
and  she  came  in  humming  an  air  from  "II  Barbiere. " 

"Good- morning,  papa.  What  do  you  want  with  me  so 
early?"  Having  sung  these  words,  as  though  they  were  the 
refrain  of  the  melody,  she  kissed  the  Count,  not  with  the 
familiar  tenderness  which  makes  a  daughter's  love  so  sweet 


106  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

a  thing,  but  with  the  light  carelessness  of  a  mistress  confi- 
dent of  pleasing,  whatever  she  may  do. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Monsieur  de  Fontaine,  gravely, 
"I  sent  for  you  to  talk  to  you  very  seriously  about  your 
future  prospects.  You  are  at  this  moment  under  the  neces- 
sity of  making  such  a  choice  of  a  husband  as  may  secure  you 
durable  happiness — " 

"My  good  father,"  replied  Emilie,  assuming  her  most 
coaxing  tone  of  voice  to  interrupt  him,  "it  strikes  me  that 
the  armistice  on  which  we  agreed  as  to  my  suitors  is  not  yet 
expired. ' ! 

"Emilie,  we  must  to-day  forbear  from  jesting  on  so  im- 
portant a  matter.  For  some  time  past  the  efforts  of  those 
who  most  truly  love  you,  my  dear  child,  have  been  concen- 
trated on  the  endeavor  to  settle  you  suitably ;  and  you  would 
be  guilty  of  ingratitude  in  meeting  with  levity  those  proofs 
of  kindness  which  I  am  not  alone  in  lavishing  on  you." 

As  she  heard  these  words,  after  flashing  a  mischievously 
inquisitive  look  at  the  furniture  of  her  father's  study,  the 
young  girl  brought  forward  the  armchair  which  looked  as  if 
it  had  been  least  used  by  petitioners,  set  it  at  the  side  of  the 
fireplace  so  as  to  sit  facing  her  father,  and  settled  herself  in 
so  solemn  an  attitude  that  it  was  impossible  not  to  read 
in  it  a  mocking  intention,  crossing  her  arms  over  the  dainty 
trimmings  of  a  pelerine  d  la  neige,  and  ruthlessly  crushing 
its  endless  frills  of  white  tulle.  After  a  laughing  side  glance 
at  her  old  father's  troubled  face,  she  broke  silence. 

"I  never  heard  you  say,  my  dear  father,  that  the  Govern- 
ment issued  its  instructions  in  its  dressing-gown.  However, ' ' 
and  she  smiled,  "that  does  not  matter;  the  mob  are  probably 
not  particular.  Now,  what  are  your  proposals  for  legislation, 
and  your  official  introductions?" 

"I  shall  not  always  be  able  to  make  them,  headstrong 
girl! — Listen,  Emilie.  It  is  my  intention  no  longer  to  com- 
promise my  reputation,  which  is  part  of  my  children's  for- 
tune, by  recruiting  the  regiment  of  dancers  which,  spring 
after  spring,  you  put  to  rout.  You  have  already  been  the 


THE  SCEAUX  BALL  107 

cause  of  many  dangerous  misunderstandings  with  certain 
families.  I  hope  to  make  you  perceive  more  truly  the  dif- 
ficulties of  your  position  and  of  ours.  You  are  two-and- 
twenty,  my  dear  child,  and  you  ought  to  have  been  married 
nearly  three  years  since.  Your  brothers  and  your  two  sis- 
ters are  richly  and  happily  provided  for.  But,  my  dear,  the 
expenses  occasioned  by  these  marriages,  and  the  style  of 
housekeeping  you  require  of  your  mother,  have  made  such 
inroads  on  our  income  that  I  can  hardly  promise  you  a  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  as  a  marriage  portion.  From  this  day 
forth  I  shall  think  only  of  providing  for  your  mother,  who 
must  not  be  sacrificed  to  her  children.  Emilie,  if  I  were 
to  be  taken  from  my  family,  Madame  de  Fontaine  could  not 
be  left  at  anybody's  mercy,  and  ought  to  enjoy  the  affluence 
which  I  have  given  her  too  late  as  the  reward  of  her  devotion 
in  my  misfortunes.  You  see,  my  child,  that  the  amount  of 
your  fortune  bears  no  relation  to  your  notions  of  grandeur. 
Even  that  would  be  such  a  sacrifice  as  I  have  not  hitherto 
made  for  either  of  my  children;  but  they  have  generously 
agreed  not  to  expect  in  the  future  any  compensation  for  the 
advantage  thus  given  to  a  too  favored  child. ' ' 

"In  their  position!"  said  Emilie,  with  an  ironical  toss  of 
her  head. 

"My  dear,  do  not  so  depreciate  those  who  love  you. 
Only  the  poor  are  generous  as  a  rule;  the  rich  have  always 
excellent  reasons  for  not  handing  over  twenty  thousand 
francs  to  a  relation.  Come,  my  child,  do  not  pout,  let  us 
talk  rationally. — Among  the  young  marrying  men  have  you 
noticed  Monsieur  de  Manerville?" 

"Oh,  he  minces  his  words — he  says  Zules  instead  of 
Jules;  he  is  always  looking  at  his  feet,  because  he  thinks 
them  small,  and  he  gazes  at  himself  in  the  glass!  Besides, 
he  is  fair.  I  don't  like  fair  men." 

"Well,  then,  Monsieur  de  Beaudenord?" 

"He  is  not  noble!  he  is  ill  made  and  stout.  He  is  dark, 
it  is  true. — If  the  two  gentlemen  could  agree  to  combine 
their  fortunes,  and  the  first  would  give  his  name  and  his 


108  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

figure  to  the  second,  who  should  keep  his  dark  hair,  then — 
perhaps — " 

"What  can  you  say  against  Monsieur  de  Eastignac?" 

"Madame  de  Nucingen  has  made  a  banker  of  him,"  she 
said  with  meaning. 

"And  our  cousin,  the  Vicomte  de  Portenduere?" 

"A  mere  boy,  who  dances  badly;  besides,  he  has  no  for- 
tune. And,  after  all,  papa,  none  of  these  people  have  titles. 
I  want,  at  least,  to  be  a  countess  like  my  mother. ' ' 

"Have  you  seen  no  one,  then,  this  winter — ?" 

"No,  papa." 

"What  then  do  you  want?" 

"The  son  of  a  peer  of  France." 

"My  dear  girl,  you  are  mad!"  said  Monsieur  de  Fontaine, 
rising. 

But  he  suddenly  lifted  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and  seemed  to 
find  a  fresh  font  of  resignation  in  some  religious  thought; 
then,  with  a  look  of  fatherly  pity  at  his  daughter,  who  her- 
self was  moved,  he  took  her  hand,  pressed  it,  and  said  with 
deep  feeling:  "God  is  my  witness,  poor  mistaken  child,  I 
have  conscientiously  discharged  my  duty  to  you  as  a  father 
— conscientiously,  do  I  say?  Most  lovingly,  my  Emilie. 
Yes,  God  knows!  This  winter  I  have  brought  before  you 
more  than  one  good  man,  whose  character,  whose  habits,  and 
whose  temper  were  known  to  me,  and  all  seemed  worthy  of 
you.  My  child,  my  task  is  done.  From  this  day  forth  you 
are  the  arbiter  of  your  fate,  and  I  consider  myself  both  happy 
and  unhappy  at  finding  myself  relieved  of  the  heaviest  of 
paternal  functions.  I  know  not  whether  you  will  for  any 
long  time,  now,  hear  a  voice  which,  to  you,  has  never  been 
stern;  but  remember  that  conjugal  happiness  does  not  rest 
so  much  on  brilliant  qualities  and  ample  fortune  as  on  recip- 
rocal esteem.  This  happiness  is,  in  its  nature,  modest,  and 
devoid  of  show.  So  now,  my  dear,  my  consent  is  given 
beforehand,  whoever  the  son-in-law  may  be  whom  you  intro- 
duce to  me;  but  if  you  should  be  unhappy,  remember  you 
will  have  no  right  to  accuse  your  father.  I  shall  not  refuse 


THE   SCEAUX   BALL  109 

to  take  proper  steps  and  help  you,  only  your  choice  must  be 
serious  and  final.  I  will  never  twice  compromise  the  respect 
due  to  my  white  hairs." 

The  affection  thus  expressed  by  her  father,  the  solemn 
tones  of  his  urgent  address,  deeply  touched  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine;  but  she  concealed  her  emotion,  seated  herself  on 
her  father's  knees — for  he  had  dropped  all  tremulous  into  his 
chair  again — caressed  him  fondly,  and  coaxed  him  so  engag- 
ingly that  the  old  man's  brow  cleared.  As  soon  as  Ernilie 
thought  that  her  father  had  got  over  his  painful  agitation, 
she  said  in  a  gentle  voice:  "I  have  to  thank  you  for  your 
graceful  attention,  my  dear  father.  You  have  had  your  room 
set  in  order  to  receive  your  beloved  daughter.  You  did  not 
perhaps  know  that  you  would  find  her  so  foolish  and  so  head- 
strong. But,  papa,  is  it  so  difficult  to  get  married  to  a  peer 
of  France  ?  You  declared  that  they  were  manufactured  by 
dozens.  At  least,  you  will  not  refuse  to  advise  me." 

"No,  my  poor  child,  no — and  more  than  once  I  may  have 
occasion  to  cry,  'Beware!'  Eemember  that  the  making  of 
peers  is  so  recent  a  force  in  our  government  machinery  that 
they  have  no  great  fortunes.  Those  who  are  rich  look  to 
becoming  richer.  The  wealthiest  member  of  our  peerage  has 
not  half  the  income  of  the  least  rich  lord  in  the  English 
Upper  Chamber.  Thus  all  the  French  peers  are  on  the  look- 
out for  great  heiresses  for  their  sons,  wherever  they  may 
meet  with  them.  The  necessity  in  which  they  find  them- 
selves of  marrying  for  money  will  certainly  exist  for  at  least 
two  centuries. 

4 '  Pending  such  a  fortunate  accident  as  you  long  for — and 
this  fastidiousness  may  cost  you  the  best  years  of  your  life — 
your  attractions  might  work  a  miracle,  for  men  often  marry 
for  love  in  these  days.  When  experience  lurks  behind  so 
sweet  a  face  as  yours  it  may  achieve  wonders.  In  the  first 
place,  have  you  not  the  gift  of  recognizing  virtue  in  the 
greater  or  small  dimensions  of  a  man's  body?  This  is  no 
small  matter !  To  so  wise  a  young  person  as  you  are,  I  need 
not  enlarge  on  all  the  difficulties  of  the  enterprise.  I  am 


110  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

sure  that  you  would  never  attribute  good  sense  to  a  stranger 
because  he  had  a  handsome  face,  or  all  the  virtues  because 
he  had  a  fine  figure.  And  I  am  quite  of  your  mind  in  think- 
ing that  the  eons  of  peers  ought  to  have  an  air  peculiar  to 
themselves,  and  perfectly  distinctive  manners.  Though 
nowadays  no  external  sign  stamps  a  man  of  rank,  those 
young  men  will  have,  perhaps,  to  you  the  indefinable  some- 
thing that  will  reveal  it.  Then,  again,  you  have  your  heart 
well  in  hand,  like  a  good  horseman  who  is  sure  his  steed 
cannot  bolt.  Luck  be  with  you,  my  dear ! ' ' 

"You  are  making  game  of  me,  papa.  Well,  I  assure  you 
that  I  would  rather  die  in  Mademoiselle  de  Condi's  convent 
than  not  be  the  wife  of  a  peer  of  France." 

She  slipped  out  of  her  father's  arms,  and,  proud  of  being 
her  own  mistress,  went  off  singing  the  air  of  "Cara  non 
dubitare,"  in  the  "Matrimonio  Segreto." 

As  it  happened,  the  family  were  that  day  keeping  the 
anniversary  of  a  family  fete.  At  dessert,  Madame  Planat, 
the  Receiver-General's  wife,  spoke  with  some  enthusiasm 
of  a  young  American  owning  an  immense  fortune,  who  had 
fallen  passionately  in  love  with  her  sister,  and  made  through 
her  the  most  splendid  proposals. 

"A  banker,  I  rather  think,"  observed  Emilie  carelessly. 
"I  do  not  like  money  dealers." 

"But,  Emilie,"  replied  the  Baron  de  Villaine,  the  hus- 
band of  the  Count's  second  daughter,  "you  do  not  like  law- 
yers either;  so  that  if  you  refuse  men  of  wealth  who  have 
not  titles,  I  do  not  quite  see  in  what  class  you  are  to  choose 
a  husband. ' ' 

"Especially,  Emilie,  with  your  standard  of  slimness," 
added  the  Lieutenant-Greneral. 

"I  know  what  I  want,"  replied  the  young  lady. 

"My  sister  wants  a  fine  name,  a  fine  young  man,  fine 
prospects,  and  a  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year, ' '  said  the 
Baronne  de  Fontaine.  "Monsieur  de  Marsay,  for  instance." 

"I  know,  my  dear,"  retorted  Emilie,  "that  I  do  not  mean 
to  make  such  a  foolish  marriage  as  some  I  have  seen.  More- 


THE   SCEAUX    BALL  111 

over,  to  put  an  end  to  these  matrimonial  discussions,  I  here- 
by declare  that  I  shall  look  on  any  one  who  talks  to  me  of 
marriage  as  a  foe  to  my  peace  of  mind." 

An  uncle  of  Emilie's,  a  vice-admiral,  whose  fortune  had 
just  been  increased  by  twenty  thousand  francs  a  year  in  con- 
sequence of  the  Act  of  Indemnity,  and  a  man  of  seventy, 
feeling  himself  privileged  to  say  hard  things  to  his  grand- 
niece,  on  whom  he  doted,  in  order  to  mollify  the  bitter  tone 
of  the  discussion  now  exclaimed: 

"Do  not  tease  my  poor  little  Emilie;  don't  you  see  she 
is  waiting  till  the  Due  de  Bordeaux  comes  of  age!" 

The  old  man's  pleasantry  was  received  with  general 
laughter. 

"Take  care  I  don't  marry  you,  old  fool!"  replied  the 
young  girl,  whose  last  words  were  happily  drowned  in  the 
noise. 

"My  dear  children,"  said  Madame  de  Fontaine,  to  soften 
this  saucy  retort,  "Emilie,  like  you,  will  take  no  advice  but 
her  mother's." 

"Bless  me!  I  shall  take  no  advice  but  my  own  in  a  mat- 
ter which  concerns  no  one  but  myself, ' '  said  Mademoiselle 
de  Fontaine  very  distinctly. 

At  this  all  eyes  were  turned  to  the  head  of  the  family. 
Every  one  seemed  anxious  as  to  what  he  would  do  to  assert 
his  dignity.  The  venerable  gentleman  enjoyed  much  con- 
sideration, not  only  in  the  world;  happier  than  many  fath- 
ers, he  was  also  appreciated  by  his  family,  all  its  members 
having  a  just  esteem  for  the  solid  qualities  by  which  he  had 
been  able  to  make  their  fortunes.  Hence  he  was  treated 
with  the  deep  respect  which  is  shown  by  English  families, 
and  some  aristocratic  houses  on  the  Continent,  to  the  living 
representative  of  an  ancient  pedigree.  Deep  silence  had 
fallen;  and  the  guests  looked  alternately  from  the  spoiled 
girl's  proud  and  sulky  pout  to  the  severe  faces  of  Monsieur 
and  Madame  de  Fontaine. 

"I  have  made  my  daughter  Emilie  mistress  of  her  own 
fate,"  was  the  reply  spoken  by  the  Count  in  a  deep  voice. 


112  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Relations  and  guests  gazed  at  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine 
with  mingled  curiosity  and  pity.  The  words  seemed  to  de- 
clare that  fatherly  affection  was  weary  of  the  contest  with  a 
character  that  the  whole  family  knew  to  be  incorrigible.  The 
sons-in-law  muttered,  and  the  brothers  glanced  at  their  wives 
with  mocking  smiles.  From  that  moment  every  one  ceased 
to  take  any  interest  in  the  haughty  girl's  prospects  of  mar- 
riage. Her  old  uncle  was  the  only  person  who,  as  an  old 
sailor,  ventured  to  stand  on  her  tack,  and  take  her  broad- 
sides, without  ever  troubling  himself  to  return  her  fire. 

When  the  fine  weather  was  settled,  and  after  the  budget 
was  voted,  the  whole  family — a  perfect  example  of  the  par- 
liamentary families  on  the  northern  side  of  the  Channel  who 
have  a  footing  in  every  government  department,  and  ten 
votes  in  the  House  of  Commons — flew  away  like  a  brood 
of  young  birds  to  the  charming  neighborhoods  of  Aulnay, 
Antony,  and  Chatenay.  The  wealthy  Receiver-General  had 
lately  purchased  in  this  part  of  the  world  a  country-house 
for  his  wife,  who  remained  in  Paris  only  during  the  session. 
Though  the  fair  Emilie  despised  the  commonalty,  her  feel- 
ing was  not  carried  so  far  as  to  scorn  the  advantages  of  a 
fortune  acquired  in  a  profession;  so  she  accompanied  her 
sister  to  the  sumptuous  villa,  less  out  of  affection  for  the 
members  of  her  family  who  were  visiting  there,  than  because 
fashion  has  ordained  that  every  woman  who  has  any  self- 
respect  must  leave  Paris  in  the  summer.  The  green  seclu- 
sion of  Sceaux  answered  to  perfection  the  requirements  of 
good  style  and  of  the  duties* of  an  official  position. 

As  it  is  extremely  doubtful  that  the  fame  of  the  k'Bal  de 
Sceaux"  should  ever  have  extended  beyond  the  borders  of 
the  Department  of  the  Seine,  it  will  be  necessary  to  give 
some  account  of  this  weekly  festivity,  which  at  that  time 
was  important  enough  to  threaten  to  become  an  institution. 
The  environs  of  the  little  town  of  Sceaux  enjoy  a  reputation 
due  to  the  scenery,  which  is  considered  enchanting.  Per- 
haps it  is  quite  ordinary,  and  owes  its  fame  only  to  the 
stupidity  of  the  Paris  townsfolk,  who,  emerging  from  the 


THE  SCEAUX  BALL  113 

stony  abyss  in  which  they  are  buried,  would  find  something 
to  admire  in  the  flats  of  La  Beauce.  However,  as  the  poetic 
shades  of  Aulnay,  the  hillsides  of  Antony,  and  the  valley 
of  the  Bievre  are  peopled  with  artists  who  have  travelled 
far,  by  foreigners  who  are  very  hard  to  please,  and  by  a 
great  many  pretty  women  not  devoid  of  taste,  it  is  to  be 
supposed  that  the  Parisians  are  right.  But  Sceaux  pos- 
sesses another  attraction  not  less  powerful  to  the  Parisian. 
In  the  midst  of  a  garden  whence  there  are  delightful  views, 
stands  a  large  rotunda  open  on  all  sides,  with  a  light,  spread- 
ing roof  supported  on  elegant  pillars.  This  rural  baldachino 
shelters  a  dancing-floor.  The  most  stuck-up  landowners  of 
the  neighborhood  rarely  fail  to  make  an  excursion  thither 
once  or  twice  during  the  season,  arriving  at  this  rustic  pal- 
ace of  Terpsichore  either  in  dashing  parties  on  horseback, 
or  in  the  light  and  elegant  carriages  which  powder  the  philo- 
sophical pedestrian  with  dust.  The  hope  of  meeting  some 
women  of  fashion,  and  of  being  seen  by  them — and  the 
hope,  less  often  disappointed,  of  seeing  young  peasant 
girls,  as  wily  as  judges — crowds  the  ballroom  at  Sceaux 
with  numerous  swarms  of  lawyers'  clerks,  of  the  disciples 
of  ^Esculapius,  and  other  youths  whose  complexions  are 
kept  pale  and  moist  by  the  damp  atmosphere  of  Paris 
back-shops.  And  a  good  many  bourgeois  marriages  have 
had  their  beginning  to  the  sound  of  the  band  occupying 
the  centre  of  this  circular  ballroom.  If  that  roof  could 
speak,  what  love-stories  could  it  not  tell! 

This  interesting  medley  gave  the  Sceaux  balls  at  that 
time  a  spice  of  more  amusement  than  those  of  two  or  three 
places  of  the  same  kind  near  Pans;  and  it  had  incontestable 
advantages  in  its  rotunda,  and  the  beauty  of  its  situation  and 
its  gardens.  Emilie  was  the  first  to  express  a  wish  to  play 
at  being  common  folk  at  this  gleeful  suburban  entertainment, 
and  promised  herself  immense  pleasure  in  mingling  with  the 
crowd.  Everybody  wondered  at  her  desire  to  wander  through 
such  a  mob ;  but  is  there  not  a  keen  pleasure  to  grand  peo- 
ple in  an  incognito?  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  amused 


114  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

herself  with  imagining  all  these  town-bred  figures;  she  fan- 
cied herself  leaving  the  memory  of  a  bewitching  glance  and 
smile  stamped  on  more  than  one  shopkeeper  heart,  laughed 
beforehand  at  the  damsels'  airs,  and  sharpened  her  pencils 
for  the  scenes  she  proposed  to  sketch  in  her  satirical  album. 
Sunday  could  not  come  soon  enough  to  satisfy  her  impatience. 
The  party  from  the  Villa  Planat  set  out  on  foot,  so  as  not 
to  betray  the  rank  of  the  personages  who  were  about  to  honpr 
the  ball  with  their  presence.  They  dined  early.  And  the 
month  of  May  humored  this  aristocratic  escapade  by  one  of 
its  finest  evenings.  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  was  quite  sur- 
prised to  find  in  the  rotunda  some  quadrilles  made  up  of  per- 
sons who  seemed  to  belong  to  the  upper  classes.  Here  and 
there,  indeed,  were  some  young  men  who  looked  as  though 
they  must  have  saved  for  a  month  to  shine  for  a  day;  and 
she  perceived  several  couples  whose  too  hearty  glee  sug- 
gested nothing  conjugal;  still,  she  could  only  glean  instead 
of  gathering  a  harvest.  She  was  amazed  to  see  that  pleasure 
in  a  cotton  dress  was  so  very  like  pleasure  robed  in  satin, 
and  that  the  girls  of  the  middle  class  danced  quite  as  well 
as  ladies — nay,  sometimes  better.  Most  of  the  women  were 
simply  and  suitably  dressed.  Those  who  in  this  assembly 
represented  the  ruling  power,  that  is  to  say,  the  country-folk, 
kept  apart  with  wonderful  politeness.  In  fact,  Mademoiselle 
Emilie  had  to  study  the  various  elements  that  composed  the 
mixture  before  she  could  find  any  subject  for  pleasantry. 
But  she  had  not  time  to  give  herself  up  to  malicious  criti- 
cism, nor  opportunity  for  hearing  many  of  the  startling 
speeches  which  caricaturists  so  gladly  pick  up :  the  haughty 
young  lady  suddenly  found  a  flower  in  this  wide  field — the 
metaphor  is  reasonable — whose  splendor  and  coloring  worked 
on  her  imagination  with  all  the  fascination  of  novelty.  It 
often  happens  that  we  look  at  a  dress,  a  hanging,  a  blank 
sheet  of  paper,  with  so  little  heed  that  we  do  not  at  first 
detect  a  stain  or  a  bright  spot  which  afterward  strikes  the 
eye  as  though  it  had  come  there  at  the  very  instant  when 
we  see  it:  and  by  a  sort  of  moral  phenomenon  somewhat 


THE  SCEAUX  BALL  115 

resembling  this,  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  discovered  in 
a  young  man  the  external  perfections  of  which  she  had  so 
long  dreamed. 

Seated  on  one  of  the  clumsy  chairs  which  marked  the 
boundary  line  of  the  circular  floor,  she  had  placed  herself 
at  the  end  of  the  row  formed  by  the  family  party,  so  as  to 
be  able  to  stand  up  or  push  forward  as  her  fancy  moved  her, 
treating  the  living  pictures  and  groups  in  the  hall  as  if  she 
were  in  a  picture  gallery;  impertinently  turning  her  eyeglass 
on  persons  not  two  yards  away,  and  making  her  remarks  as 
though  she  were  criticising  or  praising  a  study  of  a  head,  a 
painting  of  genre.  Her  eyes,  after  wandering  over  the  vast 
moving  picture,  were  suddenly  caught  by  this  figure,  which 
seemed  to  have  been  placed  on  purpose  in  one  corner  of  the 
canvas,  and  in  the  best  light,  like  a  person  out  of  all  propor- 
tion with  the  rest. 

The  stranger,  alone  and  absorbed  in  thought,  leaned 
lightly  against  one  of  the  columns  that  supported  the  roof; 
his  arms  were  folded,  and  he  leaned  slightly  on  one  side  as 
though  he  had  placed  himself  there  to  have  his  portrait 
taken  by  a  painter.  His  attitude,  though  full  of  elegance 
and  dignity,  was  devoid  of  affectation.  Nothing  suggested 
that  he  had  half  turned  his  head,  and  bent  it  a  little  to  the 
right  like  Alexander,  or  Lord  Byron,  and  some  other  great 
men,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  attracting  attention.  His  fixed 
gaze  followed  a  girl  who  was  dancing,  and  betrayed  some 
strong  feeling.  His  slender,  easy  frame  recalled  the  noble 
proportions  of  the  Apollo.  Fine  black  hair  curled  naturally 
over  a  high  forehead.  At  a  glance  Mademoiselle  de  Fon- 
taine observed  that  his  linen  was  fine,  his  gloves  fresh,  and 
evidently  bought  of  a  good  maker,  and  his  feet  small  and 
well  shod  in  boots  of  Irish  kid.  He  had  none  of  the  vulgar 
trinkets  displayed  by  the  dandies  of  the  National  Guard  or 
the  Lovelaces  of  the  counting-house.  A  black  ribbon,  to 
which  an  eyeglass  was  attached,  hung  over  a  waistcoat  of 
the  most  fashionable  cut.  Never  had  the  fastidious  Emilie 
seen  a  man's  eyes  shaded  by  such  long,  curled  lashes.  Mel- 


116  BALZAC 'S    WORKS 

ancholy  and  passion  were  expressed  in  this  face,  and  the 
complexion  was  of  a  manly  olive  hue.  His  mouth  seemed 
ready  to  smile,  unbending  the  corners  of  eloquent  lips;  but 
this,  far  from  hinting  at  gayety,  revealed  on  the  contrary  a 
sort  of  pathetic  grace.  There  was  too  much  promise  in  that 
head,  too  much  distinction  in  his  whole  person,  to  allow  of 
one's  saying.  "What  a  handsome  man!"  or  "What  a  fine 
man!"  One  wanted  to  know  him.  The  most  clear-sighted 
observer,  on  seeing  this  stranger,  could  not  have  helped  tak- 
ing him  for  a  clever  man  attracted  to  this  rural  festivity  by 
some  powerful  motive. 

All  these  observations  cost  Emilie  only  a  minute's  atten- 
tion, during  which  the  privileged  gentleman  under  her  severe 
scrutiny  became  the  object  of  her  secret  admiration.  She  did 
not  say  to  herself,  "He  must  be  a  peer  of  France!"  but,  "Oh, 
if  only  he  is  noble,  and  he  surely  must  be —  Without 
finishing  her  thought,  she  suddenly  cose,  and,  followed  by 
her  brother  the  General,  made  her  way  toward  the  column, 
affecting  to  watch  the  merry  quadrilles ;  but  by  a  stratagem 
of  the  eye,  familiar  to  women,  she  lost  not  a  gesture  of  the 
young  man  as  she  went  toward  him.  The  stranger  politely 
moved  to  make  way  for  the  new-comers,  and  went  to  lean 
against  another  pillar.  Emilie,  as  much  nettled  by  his  po- 
liteness as  she  might  have  been  by  an  impertinence,  began 
talking  to  her  brother  in  a  louder  voice  than  good  taste  en- 
joined; she  turned  and  tossed  her  head,  gesticulated  eagerly, 
and  laughed  for  no  particular  reason,  less  to  amuse  her 
brother  than  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  imperturbable 
stranger.  None  of  her.  little  arts  succeeded.  Mademoiselle 
de  Fontaine  then  followed  the  direction  in  which  his  eyes 
were  fixed,  and  discovered  the  cause  of  his  indifference. 

In  the  midst  of  the  quadrille,  close  in  front  of  them,  a 
pale  girl  was  dancing;  her  face  was  like  one  of  the  divinities 
which  Grirodet  has  introduced  into  his  immense  composition 
of  French  Warriors  received  by  Ossian.  Emilie  fancied  that 
she  recognized  her  as  a  distinguished  milady  who  for  some 
months  had  been  living  on  a  neighboring  estate.  Her  part- 


THE   SCEAUX   BALL  117 

ner  was  a  lad  of  about  fifteen,  with  red  hands,  and  dressed 
in  nankeen  trousers,  a  blue  coat,  and  white  shoes,  which 
showed  that  the  damsel's  love  of  dancing  made  her  easy  to 
please  in  the  matter  of  partners.  Her  movements  did  not 
betray  her  apparent  delicacy,  but  a  faint  flush  already  tinged 
her  white  cheeks,  and  her  complexion  was  gaining  color. 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  went  nearer,  to  be  able  to  ex- 
amine the  young  lady  at  the  moment  when  she  returned  to 
her  place,  while  the  side  couples  in  their  turn  danced  the 
figure.  But  the  stranger  went  up  to  the  pretty  dancer,  and, 
leaning  over,  said  in  a  gentle  but  commanding  tone:  "Clara, 
my  child,  do  not  dance  any  more." 

Clara  made  a  little  pouting  face,  bent  her  head,  and  finally 
smiled.  When  the  dance  was  over,  the  young  man  wrapped 
her  in  a  cashmere  shawl  with  a  lover's  care,  and  seated  her 
in  a  place  sheltered  from  the  wind.  Very  soon  Mademoi- 
selle de  Fontaine,  seeing  them  rise  and  walk  round  the  place 
as  if  preparing  to  leave,  found  means  to  follow  them  under 
pretence  of  admiring  the  views  from  the  garden.  Her  brother 
lent  himself  with  malicious  good-humor  to  the  divagations  of 
her  rather  eccentric  wanderings.  Emilie  then  saw  the  attrac- 
tive couple  get  into  an  elegant  Tilbury,  by  which  stood  a 
mounted  groom  in  livery.  At  the  moment  when,  from  his 
high  seat,  the  young  man  was  drawing  the  reins  even,  she 
caught  a  glance  from  his  eye  such  as  a  man  casts  aimlessly 
at  the  crowd;  and  then  she  enjoyed  the  feeble  satisfaction 
of  seeing  him  twice  turn  his  head  to  look  at  her.  The  young 
lady  did  the  same.  Was  it  from  jealousy  ? 

"I  imagine  you  have  now  seen  enough  of  the  garden," 
said  her  brother.  "We  may  go  back  to  the  dancing." 

"I  am  ready,"  said  she.  "Do  you  think  the  girl  can  be 
a  relation  of  Lady  Dudley's?" 

"Lady  Dudley  may  have  some  male  relation  staying 
with  her,"  said  the  Baron  de  Fontaine;  "but  a  young 
girl!— No!" 

Next  day  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  expressed  a  wish  to 
take  a  ride.  Then  she  gradually  accustomed  her  old  uncle 


118  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

and  her  brothers  to  escorting  her  in  very  early  rides,  excel- 
lent, she  declared,  for  her  health.  She  had  a  particular  fancy 
for  the  environs  of  the  hamlet  where  Lady  Dudley  was  liv- 
ing. Notwithstanding  her  cavalry  manoeuvres,  she  did  not 
meet  the  stranger  so  soon  as  the  eager  search  she  pursued 
might  have  allowed  her  to  hope.  She  went  several  times 
to  the  "Bal  de  Sceaux':  without  seeing  the  young  English- 
man who  had  dropped  from  the  skies  to  pervade  and  beau- 
tify her  dreams.  Though  nothing  spurs  on  a  young  girl's 
infant  passion  so  effectually  as  an  obstacle,  there  was  a  time 
when  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  was  on  the  point  of  giving 
up  her  strange  and  secret  search,  almost  despairing  of  the 
success  of  an  enterprise  whose  singularity  may  give  some 
idea  of  the  boldness  of  her  temper.  In  point  of  fact,  she 
might  have  wandered  long  about  the  village  of  Ch&tenay 
without  meeting  her  Unknown.  The  fair  Clara — since  that 
was  the  name  Bmilie  had  overheard — was  not  English,  and 
the  stranger  who  escorted  her  did  not  dwell  among  the 
flowery  and  fragrant  bowers  of  Chatenay. 

One  evening  Emilie,  out  riding  with  her  uncle,  who, 
during  the  fine  weather,  had  gained  a  fairly  long  truce 
from  the  gout,  met  Lady  "Dudley.  The  distinguished  for- 
eigner had  with  her  in  her  open  carriage  Monsieur  Van- 
denesse.  Emilie  recognized  the  handsome  couple,  and  her 
suppositions  were  at  once  dissipated  like  a  dream.  An- 
noyed, as  any  woman  must  be  whose  expectations  are  frus- 
trated, she  touched  up  her  horse  so  suddenly  that  her  uncle 
had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  following  her,  she  had  set  off 
at  such  a  pace. 

"I  am  too  old,  it  would  seem,  to  understand  these  youth- 
ful spirits,"  said  the  old  sailor  to  himself  as  he  put  his  horse 
to  a  canter;  "or  perhaps  young  people  are  not  what  they  used 
to  be.  But  what  ails  my  niece  ?  Now  she  is  walking  at  a 
foot-pace  like  a  gendarme  on  patrol  in  the  Paris  streets. 
One  might  fancy  she  wanted  to  outflank  that  worthy  man, 
who  looks  to  me  like  an  author  dreaming  over  his  poetry, 
for  he  has,  I  think,  a  notebook  in  his  hand.  My  word,  I 


THE  SCEAUX  BALL  119 

am  a  great  simpleton !  Is  not  that  the  very  young  man  we 
are  in  search  of!" 

At  this  idea  the  old  admiral  moderated  his  horse's  pace 
so  as  to  follow  his  niece  without  making  any  noise.  He  had 
played  too  many  pranks  in  the  years  1771  and  soon  after,  a 
time  of  our  history  when  gallantry  was  held  in  honor,  not 
to  guess  at  once  that  by  the  merest  chance  Emilie  had  met 
the  Unknown  of  the  Sceaux  gardens.  In  spite  of  the  film 
which  age  had  drawn  over  his  gray  eyes,  the  Comte  de  Ker- 
garouet  could  recognize  the  signs  of  extreme  agitation  in  his 
niece,  under  the  unmoved  expression  she  tried  to  give  to  her 
features.  The  girl's  piercing  eyes  were  fixed  in  a  sort  of  dull 
amazement  on  the  stranger,  who  quietly  walked  on  in  front 
of  her. 

"Ay,  that's  it,"  thought  the  sailor.  "She  is  following 
him  as  a  pirate  follows  a  merchantman.  Then,  when  she 
has  lost  sight  of  him,  she  will  be  in  despair  at  not  knowing 
who  it  is  she  is  in  love  with,  and  whether  he  is  a  marquis 
or  a  shopkeeper.  Really  these  young  heads  need  an  old 
fogy  like  me  always  by  their  side  ..." 

He  unexpectedly  spurred  his  horse  in  such  a  way  as  to 
make  his  niece's  bolt,  and  rode  so  hastily  between  her  and 
the  young  man  on  foot  that  he  obliged  him  to  fall  back  on 
to  the  grassy  bank  which  rose  from  the  roadside.  Then, 
abruptly  drawing  up,  the  Count  exclaimed:  "Couldn't  you 
get  out  of  the  way?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Monsieur.  But  I  did  not  know  that 
it  lay  with  me  to  apologize  to  you  because  you  almost  rode 
me  down." 

"There,  enough  of  that,  my  good  fellow!"  replied  the 
sailor  harshly,  in  a  sneering  tone  that  was  nothing  less 
than  insulting.  At  the  same  time  the  Count  raised  his 
hunting  crop  as  if  to  strike  his  horse,  and  touched  the 
young  fellow's  shoulder,  saying,  "A  liberal  citizen  is  a 
reasoner;  every  reasoner  should  be  prudent." 

The  young  man  went  up  the  bankside  as  he  heard  the 
sarcasm;  then  he  crossed  his  arms,  and  said  in  an  excited 


120  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

tone  of  voice,  "I  cannot  suppose,  Monsieur,  as  I  look  at 
your  white  hairs,  that  you  still  amuse  yourself  by  provok- 
ing duels — " 

"White  hairs!"  cried  the  sailor,  interrupting  him. 
"You  lie  in  your  throat.  They  are  only  gray." 

A  quarrel  thus  begun  had  in  a  few  seconds  become  so 
fierce  that  the  younger  man  forgot  the  moderation  he  had 
tried  to  preserve.  Just  as  the  Comte  de  Kergarouet  saw 
his  niece  coming  back  to  them  with  every  sign  of  the  great- 
est uneasiness,  he  told  his  antagonist  his  name,  bidding 
him  keep  silence  before  the  young  lady  intrusted  to  his 
care.  The  stranger  could  not  help  smiling  as  he  gave  a 
visiting  card  to  the  old  man,  desiring  him  to  observe  that 
he  was  living  in  a  country-house  at  Chevreuse;  and,  after 
pointing  this  out  to  him,  he  hurried  away. 

"You  very  nearly  damaged  that  poor  young  counter- 
jumper,  my  dear,"  said  the  Count,  advancing  hastily  to 
meet  Emilie.  "Do  you  not  know  how  to  hold  your  horse 
in  ? — And  there  you  leave  me  to  compromise  my  dignity 
in  order  to  screen  your  folly;  whereas  if  you  had  but 
stopped,  one  of  your  looks,  or  one  of  your  pretty  speeches 
— one  of  those  you  can  make  so  prettily  when  you  are  not 
pert — would  have  set  everything  right,  even  if  you  had 
broken  his  arm." 

"But,  my  dear  uncle,  it  was  your  horse,  not  mine,  that 
caused  the  accident.  I  really  think  you  can  no  longer 
ride;  you  are  not  so  good  a  horseman  as  you  were  last 
year. — But  instead  of  talking  nonsense — " 

"Nonsense,  by  Gad!  Is  it  nothing  to  be  so  impertinent 
to  your  uncle  ? ' ' 

"Ought  we  not  to  go  on  and  inquire  if  the  young  man  is 
hurt?  He  is  limping,  uncle,  only  look!" 

"No,  he  is  running;  I  rated  him  soundly." 

"Oh,  yes,  uncle;  I  know  you  there!" 

"Stop,"  said  the  Count,  pulling  Emilie 's  horse  by  the 
bridle,  "I  do  not  see  the  necessity  of  making  advances  to 
some  shopkeeper  who  is  only  too  lucky  to  have  been 


THE   SCEAUX   BALL  121 

thrown  down  by  a  charming  young  lady,  or  the  com- 
mander of  'La  Belle-Poule. '  ' 

14 Why  do  you  think  he  is  anything  so  common,  my  dear 
uncle  ?  He  seems  to  me  to  have  very  fine  manners." 

''Everyone  has  manners  nowadays,  my  dear. " 

"No,  uncle,  not  every  one  has  the  air  and  style  which 
come  of  the  habit  of  frequenting  drawing-rooms,  and  I  am 
ready  to  lay  a  bet  with  you  that  the  young  man  is  of  noble 
birth." 

"You  had  not  long  to  study  him." 

"No,  but  it  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  seen  him." 

"Nor  is  it  the  first  time  you  have  looked  for  him,"  re- 
plied the  admiral  with  a  laugh. 

Emilie  colored.  Her  uncle  amused  himself  for  some  time 
with  her  embarrassment;  then  he  said:  "Emilie,  you  know 
that  I  love  you  as  my  own  child,  precisely  because  you  are 
the  only  member  of  the  family  who  has  the  legitimate  pride 
of  high  birth.  Devil  take  it,  child,  who  could  have  believed 
that  sound  principles  would  become  so  rare  ?  Well,  I  will 
be  your  confidant.  My  dear  child,  I  see  that  this  young 
gentleman  is  not  indifferent  to  you.  Hush  I  All  the  family 
would  laugh  at  us  if  we  sailed  under  the  wrong  flag.  You 
know  what  that  means.  We  two  will  keep  our  secret,  and  I 
promise  to  bring  him  straight  into  the  drawing-room." 

"When,  uncle?" 

"To-morrow." 

"But,  my  dear  uncle,  I  am  not  committed  to  any- 
thing?" 

"Nothing  whatever,  and  you  may  bombard  him,  set  fire 
to  him,  and  leave  him  to  founder  like  an  old  hulk  if  you 
choose.  He  won't  be  the  first,  I  fancy?" 

''You  are  kind,  uncle  1" 

As  soon  as  the  Count  got  home  he  put  on  his  glasses, 
quietly  took  the  card  out  of  his  pocket,  and  read,  "Maxi- 
milien  Longueville,  Rue  du  Sentier." 

"Make  yourself  happy,  my  dear  niece,"  he  said  to 
Emilie,  "you  may  hook  him  with  an  easy  conscience;  he 
Vol.  A  BALZAC  6 


122  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

belongs  to  one  of  our  historical  families,  and  if  he  is  not  a 
peer  of  France,  he  infallibly  will  be." 

"How  do  you  know  so  much^" 

"That  is  iny  secret." 

"Then  do  you  know  his  name?" 

The  old  man  bowed  his  gray  head,  which  was  not  unlike 
a  gnarled  oak-stump,  with  a  few  leaves  fluttering  about  it, 
withered  by  autumnal  frosts;  and  his  niece  immediately 
began  to  try  the  ever-new  power  of  her  coquettish  arts. 
Long  familiar  with  the  secret  of  cajoling  the  old  man,  she 
lavished  on  him  the  most  childlike  caresses,  the  tenderest 
names;  she  even  went  so  far  as  to  kiss  him  to  induce  him 
to  divulge  so  important  a  secret.  The  old  man,  who  spent 
his  life  in  playing  off  these  scenes  on  his  niece,  often  pay- 
ing lor  them  with  a  present  of  jewelry,  or  by  giving  her 
his  box  at  the  opera,  this  time  amused  himself  with  her  en- 
treaties, and,  above  all,  her  caresses.  But  as  he  spun  c  ut 
this  pleasure  too  long,  Bmilie  grew  angry,  passed  from 
coaxing  to  sarcasm  and  sulks;  then,  urged  by  curiosity, 
she  recovered  herself.  The  diplomatic  admiral  extracted 
a  solemn  promise  from  his  niece  that  she  would  for  the 
future  be  gentler,  less  noisy,  and  less  wilful,  that  she  would 
spend  less,  and,  above  all,  tell  him  everything.  The  treaty 
being  concluded,  and  signed  by  a  kiss  impressed  on  Emilie's 
white  brow,  he  led  her  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  drew  her 
on  to  his  knee,  held  the  card  under  his  thumbs  so  as  to 
hide  it,  and  then  uncovered  the  letters  one  by  one,  spelling 
the  name  of  Longueville;  but  he  firmly  refused  to  show  her 
anything  more. 

This  incident  added  to  the  intensity  of  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine's  secret  sentiment,  and  during  chief  part  of  the 
night  she  evolved  the  most  brilliant  pictures  from  the 
dreams  with  which  she  had  fed  her  hopes.  At  last, 
thanks  to  chance,  to  which  she  had  so  often  appealed, 
Emilie  could  now  see  something  very  unlike  a  chimera  at 
the  fountain-head  of  the  imaginary  wealth  with  which  she 
gilded  her  married  life.  Ignorant,  as  all  young  girls  are, 


THE   SCEAUX  BALL 

of  the  perils  of  love  and  marriage,  she  was  passionately- 
captivated  by  the  externals  of  marriage  and  love.  Is  not 
this  as  much  as  to  say  that  her  feeling  had  birth  like  all  the 
feelings  of  extreme  youth — sweet  but  cruel  mistakes,  which 
exert  a  fatal  influence  on  the  lives  of  young  girls  so  inex- 
perienced as  to  trust  their  "own  judgment  to  take  care  of 
their  future  happiness? 

Next  morning,  before  Emilie  was  awake,  her  uncle  had 
hastened  to  Ihevreuse.  On  recognizing,  in  the  courtyard 
of  an  elegant  little  villa,  the  young  man  he  had  so  deter- 
minedly insulted  the  day  before,  he  went  up  to  him  with 
the  pressing  politeness  of  men  of  the  old  court. 

"Why,  my  dear  sir,  who  could  have  guessed  that  I 
should  have  a  brush,  at  the  age  of  seventy -three,  with  the 
son,  or  the  grandson,  of  one  of  my  best  friends  ?  I  am  a 
vice-admiral,  Monsieur;  is  not  that  as  much  as  to  say  that 
I  think  no  more  of  fighting  a  duel  than  of  smoking  a  cigar? 
Why,  in  my  time,  no  two  young  men  could  be  intimate  till 
they  had  seen  the  color  of  their  blood!  But  'sdeath,  sir, 
last  evening,  sailor-like,  I  had  taken  a  drop  too  much  grog 
on  board,  and  I  ran  you  down.  Shake  hands;  I  would 
rather  take  a  hundred  rebuffs  from  a  Longueville  than  cause 
his  family  the  smallest  regret." 

However  coldly  the  young  man  tried  to  behave  to  the 
Comte  de  Kergarouet,  he  could  not  long  resist  the  frank 
cordiality  of  his  manner,  and  presently  gave  him  his 
hand. 

"You  were  going  out  riding,"  said  the  Count.  "Do  not 
let  me  detain  you.  But,  unless  you  have  other  plans,  I  beg 
you  will  come  to  dinner  to-day-  at  the  Villa  Planat.  My 
nephew,  the  Comte  de  Fontaine,  is  a  man  it  is  essential 
that  you  should  know.  Ah,  ha!  And  I  propose  to  make 
up  to  you  for  my  clumsiness  by  introducing  you  to  five  of 
the  prettiest  women  in  Paris.  So,  so,  young  man,  your 
brow  is  clearing!  I  am  fond  of  young  people,  and  I  like 
to  see  them  happy.  Their  happiness  reminds  me  of  the 
good  times  of  my  youth,  when  adventures  were  not  lack- 


124  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

ing,  any  more  than  duels.  We  were  gay  dogs  then!  Now- 
adays you  think  and  worry  over  everything,  as  though 
there  had  never  been  a  fifteenth  and  a  sixteenth  century." 

"But,  Monsieur,  are  we  not  in  the  right?  The  six- 
teenth century  only  gave  religious  liberty  to  Europe,  and 
the  nineteenth  will  give  it  political  lib — " 

"Oh,  we  will  not  talk  politics.  I  am  a  perfect  old  woman 
— ultra  you  see.  But  I  do  not  hinder  young  men  from  being 
revolutionary,  so  long  as  they  leave  the  King  at  liberty  to 
disperse  their  assemblies." 

When  they  had  gone  a  little  way,  and  the  Count  and 
his  companion  were  in  the  heart  of  the  woods,  the  old 
sailor  pointed  out  a  slender  young  birch  sapling,  pulled  up 
his  horse,  took  out  one  of  his  pistols,  and  the  bullet  was 
lodged  in  the  heart  of  the  tree,  fifteen  paces  away. 

"You  see,  my  dear  fellow,  that  I  am  not  afraid  of  a 
duel,"  he  said  with  comical  gravity,  as  he  looked  at  Mon- 
sieur Longueville. 

"Nor  am  I,"  replied  the  young  man,  promptly  cocking 
his  pistol;  he  aimed  at  the  hole  made  by  the  Comte's  bullet, 
and  sent  his  own  in  close  to  it. 

"That  is  what  I  call  a  well-educated  man,"  cried  the 
admiral  with  enthusiasm. 

During  this  ride  with  the  youth,  whom  he  already  re- 
garded as  his  nephew,  he  found  endless  opportunities  of 
catechising  him  on  all  the  trifles  of  which  a  perfect  knowl- 
edge constituted,  according  to  his  private  code,  an  accom- 
plished gentleman. 

"Have  you  any  debts?"  he  at  last  asked  of  his  com- 
panion, after  many  other  inquiries. 

"No,  Monsieur." 

"What,  you  pay  for  all  you  have?" 

"Punctually;  otherwise  we  should  lose  our  credit,  and 
every  sort  of  respect. ' ' 

"But  at  least  you  have  more  than  one  mistress?  Ah, 
you  blush,  comrade!  Well,  manners  have  changed.  All 
these  notions  of  lawful  order,  Kantism,  and  liberty  have 


THE  SCEAUX  BALL  125 

spoiled  the  young  men.  You  have  no  Guimard  now,  no 
Blithe*,  no  creditors — and  you  know  nothing  of  heraldry; 
why,  my  dear  young  friend,  you  are  not  fully  fledged. 
The  man  who  does  not  sow  his  wild  oats  in  the  spring 
sows  them  in  the  winter.  If  I  have  but  eighty  thousand 
francs  a  year  at  the  age  of  seventy,  it  is  because  I  ran 
through  the  capital  at  thirty.  Oh!  with  my  wife — in  de- 
cency and  honor.  However,  your  imperfections  will  not 
interfere  with  my  introducing  you  at  the  Pavilion  Planat. 
Kemember  you  have  promised  to  come,  and  I  shall  expect 
you." 

"What  an  odd  little  old  man!"  said  Longueville  to  him- 
self. "He  is  so  jolly  and  hale ;  but  though  he  wishes  to  seem 
a  good  fellow,  I  will  not  trust  him  too  far." 

Next  day,  at  about  four  o'clock,  when  the  house  party 
were  dispersed  in  the  drawing-rooms  and  billiard-room,  a 
servant  announced  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  Villa  Planat, 
"Monsieur  de  Longueville."  On  hearing  the  name  of  the 
old  admiral's  protege,  every  one,  down  to  the  player  who 
was  about  to  miss  his  stroke,  rushed  in,  as  much  to  study 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine's  countenance  as  to  judge  of  this 
phoenix  of  men,  who  had  earned  honorable  mention  to  the 
detriment  of  so  many  rivals.  A  simple  but  elegant  style  of 
dress,  an  air  of  perfect  ease,  polite  manners,  a  pleasant  voice 
with  a  ring  in  it  which  found  a  response  in  the  hearer's  heart- 
strings, won  the  goodwill  of  the  family  for  Monsieur  Longue- 
ville. He  did  not  seem  unaccustomed  to  the  luxury  of  the 
Receiver-General's  ostentatious  mansion.  Though  his  con- 
versation was  that  of  a  man  of  the  world,  it  was  easy  to  dis- 
cern that  he  had  had  a  brilliant  education,  and  that  his 
knowledge  was  as  thorough  as  it  was  extensive.  He  knew 
so  well  the  right  thing  to  say  in  a  discussion  on  naval  archi- 
tecture, trivial,  it  is  true,  started  by  the  old  admiral,  that  one 
of  the  ladies  remarked  that  he  must  have  passed  through  the 
Ecole  Polytechnique. 

"And  I  think,  madame, "  he  replied,  "that  I  may  regard 
it  as  an  honor  to  have  got  in." 


126  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

In  spite  of  urgent  pressing,  he  refused  politely  but  firmly 
to  he  kept  to  dinner,  and  put  an  end  to  the  persistence  of  the 
ladies  by  saying  that  he  was  the  Hippocrates  of  his  young 
sister,  whose  delicate  health  required  great  care. 

"Monsieur  is  perhaps  a  medical  man?"  asked  one  of 
Emilie's  sisters-in-law  with  ironical  meaning. 

"Monsieur  has  left  the  Ecole  Polytechnique,"  Mademoi- 
selle de  Fontaine  kindly  put  in;  her  face  had  flushed  with 
richer  color,  as  she  learned  that  the  young  lady  of  the  ball 
was  Monsieur  Longueville's  sister. 

"But,  my  dear,  he  may  be  a  doctor  and  yet  have  been  to 
the  Ecole  Polytechnique — is  it  not  so,  Monsieur?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  prevent  it,  Madame,"  replied  the 
young  man. 

Every  eye  was  on  Emilie,  who  was  gazing  with  uneasy 
curiosity  at  the  fascinating  stranger.  She  breathed  more 
freely  when  he  added,  not  without  a  smile,  "I  have  not  the 
honor  of  belonging  to  the  medical  profession;  and  I  even 
gave  up  going  into  the  Engineers  in  order  to  preserve  my 
independence." 

"And  you  did  well,"  said  the  Count.  "But  how  can  you 
regard  it  as  an  honor  to  be  a  doctor?"  added  the  Breton 
nobleman.  "Ah,  my  young  friend,  such  a  man  as  you — " 

"Monsieur  le  Comte,  I  respect  every  profession  that  has 
a  useful  purpose. ' ' 

"Well,  in  that  we  agree.  You  respect  those  professions, 
I  imagine,  as  a  young  man  respects  a  dowager. ' ' 

Monsieur  Longueville  made  his  visit  neither  too  long  nor 
too  short.  He  left  at  the  moment  when  he  saw  that  he  had 
pleased  everybody,  and  that  each  one's  curiosity  about  him 
had  been  roused. 

"He  is  a  cunning  rascal!"  said  the  Count,  coming  into 
the  drawing-room  after  seeing  him  to  the  door. 

Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  who  had  been  in  the  secret 
of  this  call,  had  dressed  with  some  care  to  attract  the  young 
man's  eye;  but  she  had  the  little  disappointment  of  finding 
that  he  did  not  bestow  on  her  so  much  attention  as  she 


THE  SCEAUX  BALL  127 

thought  she  deserved.  The  family  were  a  good  deal  sur- 
prised at  the  silence  into  which  she  had  retired.  Emilie 
generally  displayed  all  her  arts  for  the  benefit  of  new-comers, 
her  witty  prattle,  and  the  inexhaustible  eloquence  of  her 
eyes  and  attitudes.  Whether  it  was  that  the  young  man's 
pleasing  voice  and  attractive  manners  had  charmed  her,  that 
she  was  seriously  in  love,  and  that  this  feeling  had  worked 
a  change  in  her,  her  demeanor  had  lost  all  its  affectations. 
Being  simple  and  natural,  she  must,  no  doubt,  have  seemed 
more  beautiful.  Some  of  her  sisters,  and  an  old  lady,  a 
friend  of  the  family,  saw  in  this  behavior  a  refinement  of  art. 
They  supposed  that  Emilie,  judging  the  man  worthy  of  her, 
intended  to  delay  revealing  her  merits,  so  as  to  dazzle  him 
suddenly  when  she  found  that  she  pleased  him.  Every  mem- 
ber of  the  family  was  curious  to  know  what  this  capricious 
creature  thought  of  the  stranger;  but  when,  during  dinner, 
every  one  chose  to  endow  Monsieur  Longueville  with  some 
fresh  quality  which  no  one  else  had  discovered,  Mademoi- 
selle de  Fontaine  sat  for  some  time  in  silence.  A  sarcastic 
remark  of  her  uncle's  suddenly  roused  her  from  her  apathy; 
she  said,  somewhat  epigrammatically,  that  such  heavenlj 
perfection  must  cover  some  great  defect,  and  that  she  would 
take  good  care  how  she  judged  so  gifted  a  man  at  first  sight. 

"Those  who  please  everybody,  please  nobody,"  she 
added;  "and  the  worst  of  all  faults  is  to  have  none." 

Like  all  girls  who  are  in  love,  Emilie  cherished  the  hope 
of  being  able  to  hide  her  feelings  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart, 
by  putting  the  Argus-eyes  that  watched  on  the  wrong  tack; 
but  by  the  end  of  a  fortnight  there  was  not  a  member  of  the 
large  family  party  who  was  not  in  this  little  domestic  secret. 
When  Monsieur  Longueville  called  for  the  third  time,  Emilie 
believed  it  was  chiefly  for  her  sake.  This  discovery  gave 
her  such  intoxicating  pleasure  that  she  was  startled  as  she 
reflected  on  it.  There  was  something  in  it  very  painful  to 
her  pride.  Accustomed  as  she  was  to  be  the  centre  of  her 
world,  she  was  obliged  to  recognize  a  force  that  attracted 
her  outside  herself;  she  tried  to  resist,  but  she  could  not 


128  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

chase  from  her  heart  the  fascinating  image  of  the  young 
man. 

Then  came  some  anxiety.  Two  of  Monsieur  Longue- 
yille's  qualities,  very  adverse  to  general  curiosity,  and  es- 
pecially to  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine's,  were  unexpected 
modesty  and  discretion.  He  never  spoke  of  himself,  of  his 
pursuits,  or  of  his  family.  The  hints  Emilie  threw  out  in 
conversation,  and  the  traps  she  laid  to  extract  from  the 
young  fellow  some  facts  concerning  himself,  he  could  evade 
with  the  adroitness  of  a  diplomatist  concealing  a  secret.  If 
she  talked  of  painting,  he  responded  as  a  connoisseur;  if  she 
sat  down  to  play,  he  showed  without  conceit  that  he  was  a 
very  good  pianist;  one  evening  he  delighted  all  the  party 
by  joining  his  delightful  voice  to  Emilie 's  in  one  of  Cima- 
rosa's  charming  duets.  But  when  they  tried  to  find  out 
whether  he  were  a  professional  singer,  he  baffled  them  so 
pleasantly  that  he  did  not  afford  these  women,  practiced 
as  they  were  in  the  art  of  reading  feelings,  the  least  chance 
of  discovering  to  what  social  sphere  he  belonged.  However 
boldly  the  old  uncle  cast  the  boarding-hooks  over  the  vessel, 
Longueville  slipped  away  cleverly,  so  as  to  preserve  the 
charm  of  mystery;  and  it  was  easy  to  him  to  remain  the 
"handsome  Stranger"  at  the  Villa,  because  curiosity  never 
overstepped  the  bounds  of  good  breeding. 

Emilie,  distracted  by  this  reserve,  hoped  to  get  more  out 
of  the  sister  than  the  brother,  in  the  form  of  confidences. 
Aided  by  her  uncle,  who  was  as  skilful  in  such  manoeuvres 
as  in  handling  a  ship,  she  endeavored  to  bring  upon  the 
scene  the  hitherto  unseen  figure  of  Mademoiselle  Clara 
Longueville.  The  family  party  at  the  Villa  Planat  soon 
expressed  the  greatest  desire  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
so  amiable  a  young  lady,  and  to  give  her  some  amusement. 
An  informal  dance  was  proposed  and  accepted.  The  ladies 
did  not  despair  of  making  a  young  girl  of  sixteen  talk. 

Notwithstanding  the  little  clouds  piled  up  by  suspicion 
and  created  by  curiosity,  a  light  of  joy  shone  in  Emilie's 
soul,  for  she  found  life  delicious  when  thus  intimately  con- 


THE  SCEAUX  BALL 

nected  with  another  than  herself.  She  began  to  understand 
the  relations  of  life.  Whether  it  is  that  happiness  makes  us 
better,  or  that  she  was  too  fully  occupied  to  torment  other 
people,  she  became  less  caustic,  more  gentle,  and  indulgent. 
This  change  in  her  temper  enchanted  and  amazed  her  family. 
Perhaps,  at  last,  her  selfishness  was  being  transformed  to 
love.  It  was  a  deep  delight  to  her  to  look  for  the  arrival 
of  her  bashful  and  unconfessed  adorer.  Though  they  had 
not  uttered  a  word  of  passion,  she  knew  that  she  was  loved, 
and  with  what  art  did  she  not  lead  the  stranger  to  unlock 
the  stores  of  his  information,  which  proved  to  be  varied! 
She  perceived  that  she,  too,  was  being  studied,  and  that 
made  her  endeavor  to  remedy  the  defects  her  education  had 
encouraged.  Was  not  this  her  first  homage  to  love,  and  a 
bitter  reproach  to  herself  ?  She  desired  to  please,  and  she 
was  enchanting;  she  loved,  and  she  was  idolized.  Her 
family,  knowing  that  her  pride  would  sufficiently  protect 
her,  gave  her  enough  freedom  to  enjoy  the  little  childish 
delights  which  give  to  first  love  its  charm  and  its  violence. 
More  than  once  the  young  man  and  Mademoiselle  de  Fon- 
taine walked,  tete-d-tete,  in  the  avenues  of  the  garden,  where 
nature  was  dressed  like  a  woman  going  to  a  ball.  More  than 
once  they  had  those  conversations,  aimless  and  meaningless, 
in  which  the  emptiest  phrases  are  those  which  cover  the  deep- 
est feelings.  They  often  admired  together  the  setting  sun 
and  its  gorgeous  coloring.  They  gathered  daisies  to  pull 
the  petals  off,  and  sang  the  most  impassioned  duets,  using 
the  notes  set  down  by  Pergolesi  or  Rossini  as  faithful  inter- 
preters to  express  their  secrets. 

The  day  of  the  dance  came.  Clara  Longueville  and  her 
brother,  whom  the  servants  persisted  in  honoring  with  the 
noble  de,  were  the  principal  guests.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
life  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  felt  pleasure  in  a  young  girl's 
triumph.  She  lavished  on  Clara  in  all  sincerity  the  gracious 
petting  and  little  attentions  which  women  generally  give 
each  other  only  to  excite  the  jealousy  of  men.  Emilie  had, 
indeed,  an  object  in  view;  she  wanted  to  discover  some 


130  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

secrets.  But,  being  a  girl,  Mademoiselle  Longueville  showed 
even  more  mother-wit  than  her  brother,  for  she  did  not  even 
look  as  if  she  were  hiding  a  secret,  and  kept  the  conversation 
to  subjects  unconnected  with  personal  interests,  while,  at  the 
same  time,  she  gave  it  so  much  charm  that  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine  was  almost  envious,  and  called  her  "the  Siren." 
Though  Emilie  had  intended  to  make  Clara  talk,  it  was 
Clara,  in  fact,  who  questioned  Emilie;  she  had  meant  to 
judge  her,  and  she  was  judged  by  her;  she  was  constantly 
provoked  to  find  that  she  had  betrayed  her  own  character 
in  some  reply  which  Clara  had  extracted  from  her,  while  her 
modest  and  candid  manner  prohibited  any  suspicion  of  per- 
fidy. There  was  a  moment  when  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine 
seemed  sorry  for  an  ill-judged  sally  against  the  commonalty 
to  which  Clara  had  led  her. 

"Mademoiselle, "  said  the  sweet  child,  "I  have  heard  so 
much  of  you  from  Maximilien  that  I  had  the  keenest  desire 
to  know  you,  out  of  affection  for  him;  but  is  not  a  wish  to 
know  you  a  wish  to  love  you?" 

' '  My  dear  Clara,  I  feared  I  might  have  displeased  you  by 
speaking  thus  of  people  who  are  not  of  noble  birth." 

"Oh,  be  quite  easy.  That  sort  of  discussion  is  pointless 
in  these  days.  As  for  me,  it  does  not  affect  me.  I  am  beside 
the  question." 

Ambitious  as  the  answer  might  seem,  it  filled  Mademoi- 
selle de  Fontaine  with  the  deepest  joy;  for,  like  all  infatuated 
people,  she  explained  it,  as  oracles  are  explained,  in  the  sense 
that  harmonized  with  her  wishes;  she  began  dancing  again 
in  higher  spirits  than  ever,  as  she  watched  Longueville, 
whose  figure  and  grace  almost  surpassed  those  of  her  imag- 
inary ideal.  She  felt  added  satisfaction  in  believing  him  to 
be  well  born,  her  black  eyes  sparkled,  and  she  danced  with 
all  the  pleasure  that  comes  of  dancing  in  the  presence  of 
the  being  we  love.  The  couple  had  never  understood  each 
other  so  well  as  at  this  moment;  more  than  once  they  felt 
their  finger  tips  thrill  and  tremble  as  they  were  married  in 
the  figures  of  the  dance. 


THE  SCEAUX  BALL  131 

The  early  autumn  had  come  to  the  handsome  pair,  in  the 
midst  of  country  festivities  and  pleasures;  they  had  aban- 
doned themselves  softly  to  the  tide  of  the  sweetest  sentiment 
in  life,  strengthening  it  by  a  thousand  little  incidents  which 
any  one  can  imagine ;  for  love  is  in  some  respects  always  the 
same.  They  studied  each  other  through  it  all,  as  much  as 
lovers  can. 

"Well,  well;  a  flirtation  never  turned  so  quickly  into 
a  love  match,"  said  the  old  uncle,  who  kept  an  eye  on  the 
two  young  people  as  a  naturalist  watches  an  insect  in  the 
microscope. 

This  speech  alarmed  Monsieur  and  Madame  Fontaine. 
The  old  Vende'en  had  ceased  to  be  so  indifferent  to  his 
daughter's  prospects  as  he  had  promised  to  be.  He  went 
to  Paris  to  seek  information,  and  found  none.  Uneasy  at 
this  mystery,  and  not  yet  knowing  what  might  be  the  out- 
come of  the  inquiry  which  he  had  begged  a  Paris  friend  to 
institute  with  reference  to  the  family  of  Longueville,  he 
thought  it  his  duty  to  warn  his  daughter  to  behave  pru- 
dently. The  fatherly  admonition  was  received  with  mock 
submission  spiced  with  irony. 

"At  least,  my  dear  Emilie,  if  you  love  him,  do  not  own 
it  to  him. ' ' 

"My  dear  father,  I  certainly  do  love  him;  but  I  will 
await  your  permission  before  I  tell  him  so." 

"But  remember,  Emilie,  you  know  nothing  of  his  family 
or  his  pursuits. ' ' 

"I  may  be  ignorant,  but  I  am  content  to  be.  But,  father, 
you  wished  to  see  me  married ;  you  left  me  at  liberty  to  make 
my  choice;  my  choice  is  irrevocably  made — what  more  is 
needful?" 

"It  is  needful  to  ascertain,  my  dear,  whether  the  man  of 
your  choice  is  the  son  of  a  peer  of  France,"  the  venerable 
gentleman  retorted  sarcastically. 

Emilie  was  silent  for  a  moment.  She  presently  raised 
her  head,  looked  at  her  father,  and  said  somewhat  anxiously, 
"Are  not  the  Longuevilles — ?" 


132  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"They  became  extinct  in  the  person  of  the  old  Due  de 
Kostein-Limbour,  who  perished  on  the  scaffold  in  1793. 
He  was  the  last  representative  of  the  last  and  younger 
branch." 

"But,  papa,  there  are  some  very  good  families  descended 
from  bastards.  The  history  of  France  swarms  with  princes 
-bearing  the  bar  sinister  on  their  shields." 

"Your  ideas  are  much  changed,"  said  the  old  man,  with 
a  smile. 

The  following  day  was  the  last  that  the  Fontaine  family 
were  to  spend  at  the  Pavilion  Planat.  Emilie,  greatly  dis- 
turbed by  her  father's  warning,  awaited  with  extreme  im- 
patience the  hour  at  which  young  Longueville  was  in  the 
habit  of  coming,  to  wring  some  explanation  from  him.  She 
went  out  after  dinner,  and  walked  alone  across  the  shrub- 
bery toward  an  arbor  fit  for  lovers,  where  she  knew  that  the 
eager  youth  would  seek  her;  and  as  she  hastened  thither  she 
considered  of  the  best  way  to  discover  so  important  a  matter 
without  compromising  herself — a  rather  difficult  thing !  Hith- 
erto no  direct  avowal  had  sanctioned  the  feelings  which  bound 
her  to  this  stranger.  Like  Maximilien,  she  had  secretly  en- 
joyed the  sweetness  of  first  love;  but  both  were  equally  proud, 
and  each  feared  to  confess  that  love. 

Maximilien  Longueville,  to  whom  Clara  had  communi- 
cated her  not  unfounded  suspicions  as  to  Emilie' s  character, 
was  by  tarns  carried  away  by  the  violence  of  a  young  man's 
passion,  and  held  back  by  a  wish  to  know  and  test  the  woman 
to  whom  he  would  be  intrusting  his  happiness.  His  love  had 
not  hindered  him  from  perceiving  in  Emilie  the  prejudices 
which  marred  her  young  nature;  but  before  attempting  to 
counteract  them,  he  wished  to  be  sure  that  she  loved  him, 
for  he  would  no  sooner  risk  the  fate  of  his  love  than  of  his 
life.  He  had,  therefore,  persistently  kept  a  silence  to  which 
his  looks,  his  behavior,  and  his  smallest  actions  gave  the  lie. 

On  her  side  the  self-respect  natural  to  a  young  girl,  aug- 
mented in  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  by  the  monstrous  van- 
ity founded  on  her  birth  and  beauty,  kept  her  from  meeting 


THE  SCEAUX  BALL  133 

the  declaration  half-way,  which  her  growing  passion  some- 
times urged  her  to  invite.  Thus  the  lovers  had  instinctively 
understood  the  situation  without  explaining  to  each  other 
their  secret  motives.  There  are  times  in  life  when  such 
vagueness  pleases  youthful  minds.  Just"  because  each  had 
postponed  speaking  too  long,  they  seemed  to  be  playing  a 
cruel  game  of  suspense.  He  was  trying  to  discover  whether 
he  was  beloved,  by  the  effort  any  confession  would  cost  his 
haughty  mistress;  she  every  minute  hoped  that  he  would 
break  a  too  respectful  silence. 

Emilie,  seated  on  a  rustic  bench,  was  reflecting  on  all 
that  had  happened  in  these  three  months  full  of  enchant- 
ment. Her  father's  suspicions  were  the  last  that  could  ap- 
peal to  her;  she  even  disposed  of  them  at  once  by  two  or 
three  of  those  reflections  natural  to  an  inexperienced  girl, 
which,  to  her,  seemed  conclusive.  Above  all,  she  was  con- 
vinced that  it  was  impossible  that  she  should  deceive  her- 
self. All  the  summer  through  she  had  not  been  able  to 
detect  in  Maximilien  a  single  gesture,  or  a  single  word, 
which  could  indicate  a  vulgar  origin  or  vulgar  occupations; 
nay  more,  his  manner  of  discussing  things  revealed  a  man 
devoted  to  the  highest  interests  of  the  nation.  "Besides," 
she  reflected,  "an  office  clerk,  a  banker,  or  a  merchant, 
would  not  be  at  leisure  to  spend  a  whole  season  in  paying 
his  addresses  to  me  in  the  midst  of  woods  and  fields;  wast- 
ing his  time  as  freely  as  a  nobleman  who  has  life  before  him 
free  of  all  care. ' ' 

She  had  given  herself  up  to  meditations  far  more  interest- 
ing to  her  than  these  preliminary  thoughts,  when  a  slight  rust- 
ling in  the  leaves  announced  to  her  that  Maximilien  had  been 
watching  her  for  a  minute,  not  probably  without  admiration. 

"Do  you  know  that  it  is  very  wrong  to  take  a  young  girl 
thus  unawares?"  she  asked  him,  smiling. 

"Especially  when  they  are  busy  with  their  secrets,"  re- 
plied Maximilien  archly. 

"Why  should  I  not  have  my  secrets?  You  certainly  have 
yours. ' ' 


134  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Then  you  really  were  thinking  of  your  secrets?"  he 
went  on,  laughing. 

"No,  I  was  thinking  of  yours.     My  own,  I  know." 

"But  perhaps  my  secrets  are  yours,  and  yours  mine, ' '  cried 
the  young  man,  softly  seizing  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine's 
hand  and  drawing  it  through  his  arm. 

After  walking  a  few  steps  they  found  themselves  under 
a  clump  of  trees  which  the  hues  of  the  sinking  sun  wrapped 
in  a  haze  of  red  and  brown.  This  touch  of  natural  magic 
lent  a  certain  solemnity  to  the  moment.  The  young  man's 
free  and  eager  action,  and,  above  all,  the  throbbing  of  his 
surging  heart,  whose  hurried  beating  spoke  to  Emilie's  arm, 
stirred  her  to  an  emotion  that  was  all  the  more  disturbing 
because  it  was  produced  by  the  simplest  and  most  innocent 
circumstances.  The  restraint  under  which  young  girls  of 
the  upper  class  live  gives  incredible  force  to  any  explosion 
of  feeling,  and  to  meet  an  impassioned  lover  is  one  of  the 
greatest  dangers  they  can  encounter.  Never  had  Emilie 
and  Maximilien  allowed  their  eyes  to  say  so  much  that 
they  dared  never  speak.  Carried  away  by  this  intoxica- 
tion, they  easily  forgot  the  petty  stipulations  of  pride,  and 
the  cold  hesitancies  of  suspicion.  At  first,  indeed,  they 
could  only  express  themselves  by  a  pressure  of  hands  which 
interpreted  their  happy  thoughts. 

After  slowly  pacing  a  few  steps  in  long  silence,  Madem- 
oiselle de  Fontaine  spoke.  "Monsieur,  I  have  a  question 
to  ask  you,"  she  said,  trembling,  and  in  an  agitated  voice. 
"But,  remember,  I  beg,  that  it  is  in  a  manner  compulsory  on 
me,  from  the  rather  singular  position  I  am  in  with  regard 
to  my  family. ' ' 

A  pause,  terrible  to  Emilie,  followed  these  sentences, 
which  she  had  almost  stammered  out.  During  the  minute' 
while  it  lasted,  the  girl,  haughty  as  she  was,  dared  not  meet 
the  flashing  eye  of  the  man  she  loved,  for  she  was  secretly 
conscious  of  the  meanness  of  the  next  words  she  added: 
"Are  you  of  noble  birth?"  As  soon  as  the  words  were 
spoken  she  wished  herself  at  the  bottom  of  a  lake. 


THE  SCEAUX  BALL  135 

"Mademoiselle,"  Longueville  gravely  replied,  and  his 
face  assumed  a  sort  of  stern  dignity,  "I  promise  to  answer 
you  truly  as  soon  as  you  shall  have  answered  in  all  sincerity 
a  question  I  will  put  to  you!" — He  released  her  arm,  and 
the  girl  suddenly  felt  alone  in  the  world,  as  he  said:  "What 
is  your  object  in  questioning  me  as  to  my  birth?" 

She  stood  motionless,  cold,  and  speechless. 

"Mademoiselle,"  Maximilien  went  on,  "let  us  go  no 
further  if  we  do  not  understand  each  other.  I  love  you," 
he  said,  in  a  voice  of  deep  emotion.  "Well,  then,"  he 
added,  as  he  heard  the  joyful  exclamation  she  could  not 
suppress,  "why  ask  me  if  I  am  of  noble  birth?" 

"Could  he  speak  so  if  he  were  not?"  cried  a  voice  within 
her,  which  Emilie  believed  came  from  the  depths  of  her 
heart.  She  gracefully  raised  her  head,  seemed  to  find  new 
life  in  the  young  man's  gaze,  and  held  out  her  hand  as  if  to 
renew  the  alliance. 

"You  thought  I  cared  very  much  for  dignities?"  said  she 
with  keen  archness. 

"1  have  no  titles  to  offer  my  wife,"  he  replied,  in  a  half- 
sportive,  half -serious  tone.  "But  if  I  choose  one  of  high 
rank,  and  among  women  whom  a  wealthy  home  has  accus- 
tomed to  the  luxury  and  pleasures  of  a  fine  fortune,  I  know 
what  such  a  choice  requires  of  me.  Love  gives  everything, " 
he  added  lightly,  "but  only  to  lovers.  Once  married,  they 
need  something  more  than  the  vault  of  heaven  and  the  carpet 
of  a  meadow." 

"He  is  rich,"  she  reflected.  "As  to  titles,  perhaps  he 
only  wants  to  try  me.  He  has  been  told  that  I  am  mad 
about  titles,  and  bent  on  marrying  none  but  a  peer's  son. 
My  priggish  sisters  have  played  me  that  trick. — I  assure 
you,  Monsieur,"  she  said  aloud,  "that  I  have  had  very  ex- 
travagant ideas  about  life  and  the  world;  but  now,"  she 
added  pointedly,  looking  at  him  in  a  perfectly  distracting 
way,  "I  know  where  true  riches  are  to  be  found  for  a  wife." 

"I  must  believe  that  you  are  speaking  from  the  depths 
of  your  heart,"  he  said,  with  gentle  gravity.  "But  this 


136  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

winter,  dear  my  Bmilie,  in  less  than  two  months  perhaps, 
I  may  be  proud  of  what  I  shall  have  to  offer  you  if  you  care 
for  the  pleasures  of  wealth.  This  is  the  only  secret  I  shall 
keep  locked  here,"  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart,  "for 
on  its  success  my  happiness  depends.  I  dare  not  say  ours." 

"Yes,  yes,  ours!" 

Exchanging  such  sweet  nothings,  they  slowly  made  their 
way  back  to  rejoin  the  company.  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine 
had  never  found  her  lover  more  amiable  or  wittier;  his  light 
figure,  his  engaging  manners,  seemed  to  her  more  charming 
than  ever,  since  the  conversation  which  had  made  her  to 
some  extent  the  possessor  of  a  heart  worthy  to  be  the  envy 
of  every  woman.  They  sang  an  Italian  duet  with  so  much 
expression  that  the  audience  applauded  enthusiastically. 
Their  adieux  were  in  a  conventional  tone,  which  concealed 
their  happiness.  In  short,  this  day  had  been  to  Emilie  like 
a  chain  binding  her  more  closely  than  ever  to  the  Stranger's 
fate.  The  strength  and  dignity  he  had  displayed  in  the  scene 
when  they  had  confessed  their  feelings  had  perhaps  impressed 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  with  the  respect  without  which 
there  is  no  true  love. 

When  she  was  left  alone  in  the  drawing-room  with  her 
father,  the  old  man  went  up  to  her  affectionately,  held  her 
hands,  and  asked  her  whether  she  had  gained  any  light  as 
to  Monsieur  Longueville's  family  and  fortune. 

"Yes,  my  dear  father,"  she  replied,  "and  I  am  happier 
than  I  could  have  hoped.  In  short,  Monsieur  de  Longue- 
ville  is  the  only  man  I  could  ever  marry." 

"Very  well,  Emilie,"  said  the  Count,  "then  I  know  what 
remains  for  me  to  do. ' ' 

"Do  you  know  of  any  impediment?"  she  asked,  in  sin- 
cere alarm. 

"My  dear  child,  the  young  man  is  totally  unknown  to 
me;  but  unless  he  is  not  a  man  of  honor,  so  long  as  you  love 
him,  he  is  as  dear  to  me  as  a  son. ' ' 

"Not  a  man  of  honor  1"  exclaimed  Emilie.  "As  to  that, 
I  am  quite  easy.  My  uncle,  who  introduced  him  to  us,  will 


THE   SCEAUX   BALL  137 

answer  for  him.  Say,  my  dear  uncle,  has  he  been  a  fili- 
buster, an  outlaw,  a  pirate?" 

"I  knew  I  should  find  myself  in  this  fix!"  cried  the  old 
sailor,  waking  up.  He  looked  round  the  room,  but  his  niece 
had  vanished  "like  Saint-Elmo's  fires,"  to  use  his  favorite 
expression. 

"Well,  uncle,"  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  went  on,  "how 
could  you  hide  from  us  all  you  knew  about  this  young  man  ? 
You  must  have  seen  how  anxious  we  have  been.  Is  Mon- 
sieur de  Longueville  a  man  of  family  ?" 

"I  don't  know  him  from  Adam  or  Eve,"  said  the  Comte 
de  Kergarouet.  "Trusting  to  that  crazy  child's  tact,  I  got 
him  here  by  a  method  of  my  own.  I  know  that  the  boy 
shoots  with  a  pistol  to  admiration,  hunts  weJl,  plays  wonder- 
fully at  billiards,  at  chess,  and  at  backgammon;  he  handles 
the  foils,  and  rides  a  horse  like  the  late  Chevalier  de  Saint- 
Georges.  He  has  a  thorough  knowledge  of  all  our  vintages. 
He  is  as  good  an  arithmetician  as  Bare'me,  draws,  dances, 
and  sings  well.  The  devil's  in  it!  what  more  do  you  want? 
If  that  is  not  a  perfect  gentleman,  find  me  a  bourgeois  who 
knows  all  this,  or  any  man  who  lives  more  nobly  than  he 
does.  Does  he  do  anything,  I  ask  you  ?  Does  he  compro- 
mise his  dignity  by  hanging  about  an  office,  bowing  down 
before  the  upstarts  you  call  Directors-General  ?  He  walks 
upright.  He  is  a  man, — However,  I  have  just  found  in  my 
waistcoat  pocket  the  card  he  gave  when  he  fancied  I  wanted 
to  cut  his  throat,  poor  innocent.  Young  men  are  very  simple- 
minded  nowadays !  Here  it  is. ' ' 

"Eue  du  Sentier,  No.  5,"  said  Monsieur  de  Fontaine, 
trying  to  recall  among  all  the  information  he  had  received 
something  which  might  concern  the  stranger.  "What  the 
devil  can  it  mean?  Messrs.  Palma,  Werbrust  &  Co.,  whole- 
sale dealers  in  muslins,  calicoes,  and  printed  cotton  goods, 
live  there. — Stay,  I  have  it:  Longueville  the  deputy  has  an 
interest  in  their  house.  Well,  but  so  far  as  I  know,  Longue- 
ville has  but  one  son  of  two-and-thirty,  who  is  not  at  all  like 
our  man,  and  to  whom  he  gave  fifty  thousand  francs  a  year 


138  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

that  he  might  marry  a  minister's  daughter;  he  wants  to  be 
made  a  peer  like  the  rest  of  'em. — I  never  heard  him  men- 
tion this  Maximilien.  Has  he  a  daughter?  What  is  this 
girl  Clara  ?  Besides,  it  is  open  to  any  adventurer  to  call 
himself  Longueville.  But  is  not  the  house  of  Palma,  Wer- 
brust  &  Co.  half  ruined  by  some  speculation  in  Mexico  or 
the  Indies?  I  will  clear  all  this  up." 

"You  speak  a  soliloquy  as  if  you  were  on  the  stage,  and 
seem  to  account  me  a  cipher,"  said  the  old  admiral  sud- 
denly. "Don't  you  know  that  if  he  is  a  gentleman,  I  have 
more  than  one  bag  in  my  hold  that  will  stop  any  leak  in  his 
fortune  ? ' ' 

"As  to  that,  if  he  is  a  son  of  Longueville's,  he  will  want 
nothing;  but,"  said  Monsieur  de  Fontaine,  shaking  his  head 
from  side  to  side,  "his  father  has  not  even  washed  off  the 
stains  of  his  origin.  Before  the  Kevolution  he  was  an  at- 
torney, and  the  de  he  has  since  assumed  no  more  belongs  to 
him  than  half  of  his  fortune. ' ' 

"Pooh!  pooh!  happy  those  whose  fathers  were  hanged!" 
cried  the  admiral  gayly. 

Three  or  four  days  after  this  memorable  day,  on  one  of 
those  fine  mornings  in  the  month  of  November  which  show 
the  Boulevard  cleaned  by  the  sharp  cold  of  an  early  frost, 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  wrapped  in  a  new  style  of  fur 
cape,  of  which  she  wished  to  set  the  fashion,  went  out  with 
two  of  her  sisters-in-law,  on  whom  she  had  been  wont  to  dis- 
charge her  most  cutting  remarks.  The  three  women  were 
tempted  to  the  drive,  less  by  their  desire  to  try  a  very  ele- 
gant carriage,  and  wear  gowns  which  were  to  set  the  fash- 
ions for  the  winter,  than  by  their  wish  to  see  a  cape  which 
a  friend  had  observed  in  a  handsome  lace  and  linen  shop  at 
the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  As  soon  as  they  were 
in  the  shop  the  Baronne  de  Fontaine  pulled  Emilie  by  the 
sleeve,  and  pointed  out  to  her  Maximilien  Longueville 
seated  behind  the  desk,  and  engaged  in  paying  out  the 
change  for  a  gold  piece  to  one  of  the  workwomen  with 


THE  SCEAUX  BALL  189 

whom  he  seemed  to  be  in  consultation.  The  "handsome 
stranger"  held  in  his  hand  a  parcel  of  patterns,  which  left 
no  doubt  as  to  his  honorable  profession. 

Emilie  felt  an  icy  shudder,  though  no  one  perceived  it. 
Thanks  to  the  good  breeding  of  the  best  society,  she  com- 
pletely concealed  the  rage  in  her  heart,  and  answered  her 
sister-in-law  with  the  words,  "I  knew  it,"  with  a  fulness  of 
intonation  and  inimitable  decision  which  the  most  famous 
actress  of  the  time  might  have  envied  her.  She  went 
straight  up  to  the  desk.  Longueville  looked  up,  put  the 
patterns  in  his  pocket  with  distracting  coolness,  bowed  to 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  and  came  forward,  looking  at 
her  keenly. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said  to  the  shop  girl,  who  followed 
him,  looking  very  much  disturbed,  "I  will  send  to  settle 
that  account;  my  house  deals  in  that  way.  But  here,"  he 
whispered  into  her  ear,  as  he  gave  her  a  thousand-franc 
note,  "take  this — it  is  between  ourselves. — You  will  for- 
give me,  I  trust,  Mademoiselle,"  he  added,  turning  to 
Emilie.  "You  will  kindly  excuse  the  tyranny  of  business 
matters." 

"Indeed,  Monsieur,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  no  concern 
of  mine,"  replied  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  looking  at  him 
with  a  bold  expression  of  sarcastic  indifference  which  might 
have  made  any  one  believe  that  she  now  saw  him  for  the  first 
time. 

"Do  you  really  mean  it?"  asked  Maximilien  in  a  broken 
voice. 

Emilie  turned  her  back  upon  him  with  amazing  insolence. 
These  few  words,  spoken  in  an  undertone,  had  escaped  the 
ears  of  her  two  sisters-in-law.  When,  after  buying  the 
cape,  the  three  ladies  got  into  the  carriage  again,  Emilie, 
seated  with  her  back  to  the  horses,  could  not  resist  one  last 
comprehensive  glance  into  the  depths  of  the  odious  shop, 
where  she  saw  Maximilien  standing  with  his  arms  folded, 
in  the  attitude  of  a  man  superior  to  the  disaster  that  had 
so  suddenly  fallen  on  him.  Their  eyes  met  and  flashed  im- 


140  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

placable  looks.  Each  hoped  to  inflict  a  cruel  wound  on  the 
heart  of  a  lover.  In  one  instant  they  were  as  far  apart  as  if 
one  had  been  in  China  and  the  other  in  Greenland. 

Does  not  the  breath  of  vanity  wither  everything  ?  Mad- 
emoiselle de  Fontaine,  a  prey  to  the  most  violent  struggle 
that  can  torture  the  heart  of  a  young  girl,  reaped  the  rich- 
est harvest  of  anguish  that  prejudice  and  narrow-mindedness 
ever  sowed  in  a  human  soul.  Her  face,  but  just  now  fresh 
and  velvety,  was  streaked  with  yellow  lines  and  red  patches; 
the  paleness  of  her  cheeks  seemed  every  now  and  then  to 
turn  green.  Hoping  to  hide  her  despair  from  her  sisters, 
she  would  laugh  as  she  pointed  out  some  ridiculous  dress 
or  passer-by;  but  her  laughter  was  spasmodic.  She  was 
more  deeply  hurt  by  their  unspoken  compassion  than  by 
any  satirical  comments  for  which  she  might  have  revenged 
herself.  She  exhausted  her  wit  in  trying  to  engage  them 
in  a  conversation,  in  which  she  tried  to  expend  her  fury  in 
senseless  paradoxes,  heaping  on  all  men  engaged  in  trade 
the  bitterest  insults  and  witticisms  in  the  worst  taste. 

On  getting  home,  she  had  an  attack  of  fever,  which  at 
first  assumed  a  somewhat  serious  character.  By  the  end 
of  a  month  the  care  of  her  parents  and  of  the  physician 
restored  her  to  her  family. 

Every  one  hoped  that  this  lesson  would  be  severe  enough 
to  subdue  Emilie's  nature;  but  she  insensibly  fell  into  her 
old  habits  and  threw  herself  again  into  the  world  of  fashion. 
She  declared  that  there  was  no  disgrace  in  making  a  mis- 
take. If  she,  like  her  father,  had  a  vote  in  the  Chamber, 
she  would  move  for  an  edict,  she  said,  by  which  all  mer- 
chants, and  especially  dealers  in  calico,  should  be  branded 
on  the  forehead,  like  Berri  sheep,  down  to  the  third  genera- 
tion. She  wished  that  none  but  nobles  should  have  a  right 
to  wear  the  antique  French  costume,  which  was  so  becom- 
ing to  the  courtiers  of  Louis  XV.  To  hear  her,  it  was  a 
misfortune  for  France,  perhaps,  that  there  was  no  outward 
and  visible  difference  between  a  merchant  and  a  peer  of 
France.  And  a  hundred  more  such  pleasantries,  easy  to 


THE   SCEAUX  BALL  141 

imagine,  were  rapidly  poured  out  when  any  accident  brought 
up  the  subject. 

But  those  who  loved  Emilie  could  see  through  all  her 
banter  a  tinge  of  melancholy.  It  was  clear  that  Maximilien 
Longueville  still  reigned  over  that  inexorable  heart.  Some- 
times she  would  be  as  gentle  as  she  had  been  during  the  brief 
summer  that  had  seen  the  birth  of  her  love;  sometimes,  again, 
she  was  unendurable.  Every  one  made  excuses  for  her  in- 
equality of  temper,  which  bad  its  source  in  suiferings  at 
once  secret  and  known  to  all.  The  Comte  de  Kergarouet 
had  some  influence  over  her,  thanks  to  his  increased  prodi- 
gality, a  kind  of  consolation  which  rarely  fails  of  its  effect 
on  a  Parisian  girl. 

The  first  ball  at  which  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  ap- 
peared was  at  the  Neapolitan  ambassador's.  As  she  took 
her  place  in  the  first  quadrille  she  saw,  a  few  yards  away 
from  her,  Maximilien  Longueville,  who  nodded  slightly  to 
her  partner. 

"Is  that  young  man  a  friend  of  yours?"  she  asked,  with 
a  scornful  air. 

"Only  my  brother,"  he  replied. 

Emilie  could  not  help  starting.  "Ah!"  he  continued, 
"and  he  is  the  noblest  soul  living — " 

"Do  you  know  my  name?"  asked  Emilie,  eagerly -inter- 
rupting him. 

"No,  Mademoiselle.  It  is  a  crime,  I  confess,  not  to  re- 
member a  name  which  is  on  every  lip — I  ought  to  say  in 
every  heart.  But  I  have  a  valid  excuse.  I  have  but  just 
arrived  from  Germany.  My  ambassador,  who  is  in  Paris 
on  leave,  sent  me  here  this  evening  to  take  care  of  his 
amiable  wife,  whom  you  may  see  yonder  in  that  corner. ' ' 

"A  perfect  tragic  mask!"  said  Emilie,  after  looking  at 
the  ambassadress. 

"And  yet  that  is  her  ballroom  face!"  said  the  young 
man,  laughing.  "I  shall  have  to  dance  with  her!  So  I 
thought  I  might  have  some  compensation."  Mademoiselle 
de  Fontaine  courtesied.  "I  was  very  much  surprised,"  the 


142  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

voluble  young  secretary  went  on,  "to  find  my  brother  here. 
On  arriving  from  Vienna  I  heard  that  the  poor  boy  was  ill 
in  bed,  and  I  counted  on  seeing  him  before  coming  to  this 
ball;  but  good  policy  will  not  always  allow  us  to  indulge 
family  affection.  The  Padrona  della  casa  would  not  give 
me  time  to  call  on  my  poor  Maximilien." 

"Then,  Monsieur,  your  brother  is  not,  like  you,  in  dip- 
lomatic employment?" 

"No,"  said  the  attache",  with  a  sigh,  "the  poor  fellow 
sacrificed  himself  for  me.  He  and  my  sister  Clara  have  re- 
nounced their  share  of  my  father's  fortune  to  make  an  eldest 
son  of  me.  My  father  dreams  of  a  peerage,  like  all  who  vote 
for  the  ministry.  Indeed,  it  is  promised  him, ' '  he  added  in 
an  undertone.  "After  saving  up  a  little  capital  my  brother 
joined  a  banking  firm,  and  I  hear  he  has  just  effected  a  spec- 
ulation in  Brazil  which  may  make  him  a  millionnaire.  You 
see  me  in  the  highest  spirits  at  having  been  able,  by  my  dip- 
lomatic connections,  to  contribute  to  his  success.  I  am  im- 
patiently expecting  a  despatch  from  the  Brazilian  Legation 
which  will  help  to  lift  the  cloud  from  his  brow.  What  do 
you  think  of  him  ?" 

"Well,  your  brother's  face  does  not  look  to  me  like  that 
of  a  man  busied  with  money  matters." 

The  young  attache*  shot  a  scrutinizing  glance  at  the  ap- 
parently calm  face  of  his  partner. 

"What!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  smile,  "can  young  ladies 
read  the  thoughts  of  love  behind  a  silent  brow?" 

"Your  brother  is  in  love,  then?"  she  asked,  betrayed 
into  a  movement  of  curiosity. 

"Yes;  my  sister  Clara,  to  whom  he  is  as  devoted  as  a 
mother,  wrote  to  me  that  he  had  fallen  in  love  this  summer 
with  a  very  pretty  girl;  but  I  have  had  no  further  news  of 
the  affair.  Would  you  believe  that  the  poor  boy  used  to 
get  up  at  five  in  the  morning,  and  went  off  to  settle  his 
business  that  he  might  be  back  by  four  o'clock  in  the 
country  where  the  lady  was  ?  In  fact,  he  ruined  a  very 
nice  thoroughbred  that  I  had  given  him.  Forgive  my 


THE   SCEAUX   BALL  143 

chatter,  Mademoiselle;  I  have  but  just  come  home  from 
Germany.  For  a  year  I  have  heard  no  decent  French,  I 
have  been  weaned  from  French  faces,  and  satiated  with 
Germans,  to  such  a  degree  that,  I  believe,  in  my  patriotic 
mania,  I  could  talk  to  the  chimeras  on  a  French  candle- 
stick. And  if  I  talk  with  a  lack  of  reserve  unbecoming  in 
a  diplomatist,  the  fault  is  yours,  Mademoiselle.  Was  it 
not  you  who  pointed  out  my  brother?  When  he  is  the 
theme  I  become  inexhaustible.  I  should  like  to  proclaim 
to  all  the  world  how  good  and  generous  he  is.  He  gave 
up  no  less  than  a  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year,  the  in- 
come from  the  Longueville  property." 

If  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  had  the  benefit  of  these 
important  revelations,  it  was  partly  due  to  the  skill  with 
which  she  continued  to  question  her  confiding  partner  from 
the  moment  when  she  found  that  he  was  the  brother  of  her 
scorned  lover. 

"And  could  you,  without  being  grieved,  see  your  brother 
selling  muslin  and  calico?"  asked  Emilie,  at  the  end  of  the 
third  figure  of  the  quadrille. 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  asked  the  attache.  "Thank 
God,  though  I  pour  out  a  flood  of  words,  I  have  already  ac- 
quired the  art  of  not  telling  more  than  J  intend,  like  all  the 
other  diplomatic  apprentices  I  know." 

"You  told  me,  I  assure  you." 

Monsieur  de  Longueville  looked  at  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine  with  a  surprise  that  was  full  of  perspicacity.  A 
suspicion  flashed  upon  him.  He  glanced  inquiringly  from 
his  brother  to  his  partner,  guessed  everything,  clasped  his 
hands,  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling,  and  began  to  laugh, 
saying,  "I  am  an  idiot!  You  are  the  handsomest  person 
here:  my  brother  keeps  stealing  glances  at  you;  he  is 
dancing  in  spite  of  his  illness,  and  you  pretend  not  to  see 
him.  Make  him  happy,"  he  added,  as  he  led  her  back  to 
her  old  uncle.  "I  shall  not  be  jealous,  but  I  shall  always 
shiver  a  little  at  calling  you  my  sister — " 

The  lovers,   however,    were   to   prove   as   inexorable   to 


144  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

each  other  as  they  were  to  themselves.  At  about  two  in 
the  morning,  refreshments  were  served  in  an  immense  cor- 
ridor, where,  to  leave  persons  of  the  same  coterie  free  to 
meet  each  other,  the  tables  were  arranged  as  in  a  restau- 
rant. By  one  of  those  accidents  which  always  happen  to 
lovers,  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  found  herself  at  a  table 
next  'to  that  at  which  the  more  important  guests  were 
seated.  Maximilien  was  one  of  the  group.  Emilie,  who 
lent  an  attentive  ear  to  her  neighbor's  conversation,  over- 
heard one  of  those  dialogues  into  which  a  young  woman  so 
easily  falls  with  a  young  man  who  has  the  grace  and  style 
of  Maximilien  Longueville.  The  lady  talking  to  the  young 
banker  was  a  Neapolitan  Duchess,  whose  eyes  shot  light- 
ning flashes,  and  whose  skin  had  the  sheen  of  satin.  The 
intimate  terms  on  which  Longueville  affected  to  be  with 
her  stung  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  all  the  more  because 
she  had  just  given  her  lover  back  twenty  times  as  much 
tenderness  as  she  had  ever  felt  for  him  before. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  in  my  country  true  love  can  make 
every  kind  of  sacrifice,"  the  Duchess  was  saying,  with  a 
simper. 

"You  have  more  passion  than  Frenchwomen,"  said  Max- 
imilien, whose  burning  gaze  fell  on  Emilie.  "They  are  all 
vanity." 

"Monsieur,"  Emilie  eagerly  interposed,  "is  it  not  very 
wrong  to  calumniate  your  own  country  ?  Devotion  is  to  be 
found  in  every  nation." 

"Do  you  imagine,  Mademoiselle,"  retorted  the  Italian, 
with  a  sardonic  smile,  "that  a  Parisian  would  be  capable 
of  following  her  lover  all  over  the  world?" 

"Oh,  Madame,  let  us  understand  each  other.  She  would 
follow  him  to  a  desert  and  live  in  a  tent,  but  not  to  sit  in  a 
shop." 

A  disdainful  gesture  completed  her  meaning.  Thus, 
under  the  influence  of  her  disastrous  education,  Emilie  for 
the  second  time  killed  her  budding  happiness,  and  destroyed 
its  prospects  of  life.  Maximilien's  apparent  indifference,  and 


THE   SCEAUX   BALL  146 

a  woman's  smile,  had  wrung  from  her  one  of  those  sarcasms 
whose  treacherous  zest  always  led  her  astray. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Longueville,  in  a  low  voice,  under 
cover  of  the  noise  made  by  the  ladies  as  they  rose  from  the 
table,  "no  one  will  ever  more  ardently  desire  your  happiness 
than  I;  permit  me  to  assure  you  of  this,  as  I  am  taking  leave 
of  you.  I  am  starting  for  Italy  in  a  few  days." 

"With  a  Duchess,  no  doubt?" 

"No,  but  perhaps  with  a  mortal  blow." 

"Is  not  that  pure  fancy?"  asked  Emilie,  with  an  anxious 
glance. 

"No,"  he  replied.  "There  are  wounds  which  never 
heal." 

"You  are  not  to  go,"  said  the  girl  imperiously,  and  she 
smiled. 

"I  shall  go,"  replied  Maximilien,  gravely. 

"You  will  find  me  married  on  your  return,  I  warn  you," 
she  said  coquettishly. 

"I  hope  so." 

"Impertinent  wretch!"  she  exclaimed.  "How  cruel  a 
revenge  1" 

A  fortnight  later  Maximilien  set  out  with  his  sister  Clara 
for  the  warm  and  poetic  scenes  of  beautiful  Italy,  leaving 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  a  prey  to  the  most  vehement 
regret.  The  young  Secretary  to  the  Embassy  took  up  his 
brother's  quarrel,  and  contrived  to  take  signal  vengeance  on 
Emilie's  disdain  by  making  known  the  occasion  of  the  lov- 
ers' separation.  He  repaid  his  fair  partner  with  interest  all 
the  sarcasm  with  which  she  had  formerly  attacked  Maximil- 
ien, and  often  made  more  than  one  Excellency  smile  by 
describing  the  fair  foe  of  the  counting-house,  the  amazon 
who  preached  a  crusade  against  bankers,  the  young  girl 
whose  love  had  evaporated  before  a  bale  of  muslin.  The 
Comte  de  Fontaine  was  obliged  to  use  his  influence  to  pro- 
cure an  appointment  to  Eussia  for  Auguste  Longueville  in 
order  to  protect  his  daughter  from  the  ridicule  heaped  upon 
her  by  this  dangerous  young  persecutor. 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC  7. 


146  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Not  long  after,  the  Ministry,  being  compelled  to  raise  a 
levy  of  peers  to  support  the  aristocratic  party,  trembling  in 
the  Upper  Chamber  under  the  lash  of  an  illustrious  writer, 
gave  Monsieur  Gruiraudin  de  Longueville  a  peerage,  with  the 
title  of  Vicomte.  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  also  obtained  a 
peerage,  the  reward  due  as  much  to  his  fidelity  in  evil  days 
as  to  his  name,  which  claimed  a  place  in  the  hereditary 
Chamber. 

About  this  time  Emilie,  now  of  age,  made,  no  doubt, 
some  serious  reflections  on  life,  for  her  tone  and  manners 
changed  perceptibly.  Instead  of  amusing  herself  by  saying- 
spiteful  things  to  her  uncle,  she  lavished  on  him  the  most 
affectionate  attentions;  she  brought  him  his  stick  with  a 
persevering  devotion  that  made  the  cynical  smile,  she  gave 
him  her  arm,  rode  in  his  carriage,  and  accompanied  him  in 
all  his  drives;  she  even  persuaded  him  that  she  liked  the 
smell  of  tobacco,  and  read  him  his  favorite  paper  "La  Quoti- 
dienne"  in  the  midst  of  clouds  of  smoke,  which  the  malicious 
old  sailor  intentionally  blew  over  her;  she  learned  piquet 
to  be  a  match  for  the  old  Count;  and  this  fantastic  damsel 
even  listened  without  impatience  to  his  periodical  narratives 
of  the  battles  of  the  "Belle-Poule,"  the  manoeuvres  of  the 
"Ville  de  Paris,"  M.  de  Suffren's  first  expedition,  or  the 
battle  of  Aboukir. 

Though  the  old  sailor  had  often  said  that  he  knew  his 
longitude  and  latitude  too  well  to  allow  himself  to  be  cap- 
tured by  a  young  corvette,  one  fine  morning  Paris  drawing- 
rooms  heard  the  news  of  the  marriage  of  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine  to  the  Comte  de  Kergarouet.  The  young  Comtesse 
gave  splendid  entertainments  to  drown  thought;  but  she,  no 
doubt,  found  a  void  at  the  bottom  of  the  whirlpool;  luxury 
was  ineffectual  to  disguise  the  emptiness  and  grief  of  her 
sorrowing  soul;  for  the  most  part,  in  spite  of  the  flashes  of 
assumed  gayety,  her  beautiful  face  expressed  unspoken  mel- 
ancholy. Emilie  appeared,  however,  full  of  attentions  and 
consideration  for  her  old  husband,  who,  on  retiring  to  his 
rooms  at  night,  to  the  sounds  of  a  lively  band,  would  often 


THE   SCEAUX   BALL  147 

say,  *'I  do  not  know  myself.  Was  I  to  wait  till  the  age  of 
seventy-two  to  embark  as  pilot  on  board  the  'Belle  Emilie' 
after  twenty  years  of  matrimonial  galleys?" 

The  conduct  of  the  young  Comtesse  was  marked  by  such 
strictness  that  the  most  clear-sighted  criticism  had  no  fault 
to  find  with  her.  Lookers  on  chose  to  think  that  the  vice- 
admiral  had  reserved  the  right  of  disposing  of  his  fortune  to 
keep  his  wife  more  tightly  in  hand ;  but  this  was  a  notion 
as  insulting  to  the  uncle  as  to  the  niece.  Their  conduct  was 
indeed  so  delicately  judicious  that  the  men  who  were  most 
interested  in  guessing  the  secrets  of  the  couple  could  never 
decide  whether  the  old  Count  regarded  her  as  a  wife  or  as  a 
daughter.  He  was  often  heard  to  say  that  he  had  rescued 
his  niece  as  a  castaway  after  shipwreck;  and  that,  for  his 
part,  he  had  never  taken  a  mean  advantage  of  hospitality 
when  he  had  saved  an  enemy  from  the  fury  of  the  storm. 
Though  the  Comtesse  aspired  to  reign  in  Paris  and  tried  to 
keep  pace  with  Mesdames  the  Duchesses  de  Maufrigneuse 
and  de  Chaulieu,  the  Marquises  d'Espard  and  d'Aiglemont, 
the  Comtesses  Feraud,  de  Montcornet,  and  de  Bestaud, 
Madame  de  Camps,  and  Mademoiselle  des  Touches,  she  did 
not  yield  to  the  addresses  of  the  young  "Vicomte  de  Porten- 
du&re,  who  made  her  his  idol. 

Two  years  after  her  marriage,  in  one  of  the  old  drawing- 
rooms  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  where  she  was  ad- 
mired for  her  character,  worthy  of  the  old  school,  Emilie 
heard  the  Vicomte  de  Longueville  announced.  In  the  corner 
of  the  room  where  she  was  sitting,  playing  piquet  with  the 
Bishop  of  Persepolis,  her  agitation  was  not  observed;  she 
turned  her  head  and  saw  her  former  lover  come  in,  in  all 
the  freshness  of  youth.  His  father's  death,  and  then  that 
of  his  brother,  killed  by  the  severe  climate  of  St.  Peters- 
burg, had  placed  on  Maximilien's  head  the  hereditary  plumes 
of  the  French  peer's  hat.  His  fortune  matched  his  learning 
and  his  merits;  only  the  day  before  his  youthful  and  fervid 
eloquence  had  dazzled  the  Assembly.  At  this  moment  he 
stood  before  the  Comtesse,  free,  and  graced  with  all  the  ad- 


148  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

vantages  she  had  formerly  required  of  her  ideal.  Every 
mother  with  a  daughter  to  marry  made  amiable  advances  to 
a  man  gifted  with  the  virtues  which  they  attributed  to  him, 
as  they  admired  his  attractive  person;  but  Emilie  knew,  bet- 
ter than  any  one,  that  the  Vicomte  de  Longueville  had  the 
steadfast  nature  in  which  a  wise  woman  sees  a  guarantee  of 
happiness.  She  looked  at  the  admiral  who,  to  use  his  favor- 
ite expression,  seemed  likely  to  hold  his  course  for  a  long 
time  yet,  and  cursed  the  follies  of  her  youth. 

At  this  moment  Monsieur  de  Persepolis  said  with  Epis- 
copal grace:  "Fair  lady,  you  have  thrown  away  the  king 
of  hearts — I  have  won.  But  do  not  regret  your  money.  I 
keep  it  for  my  little  seminaries." 

PAEIS,  December,  1829. 


THE     PURSE 

TO  SOFKA 

ltSave  you  observed,  Mademoiselle,  that  the  painters 
and  sculptors  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  they  placed  two 
figures  in  adoration,  one  on  each  side  of  a  fair  Saint, 
never  failed  to  give  them  a  family  likeness?  When  you 
here  see  your  name  among  those  that  are  dear  to  me,  and 
under  whose  auspices  I  place  my  works,  remember  that 
touching  harmony,  and  you  will  see  in  this  not  so  much 
an  act  of  homage  as  an  expression  of  the  brotherly  affec- 
tion of  your  devoted  servant,  DE  BALZAC." 


SOULS  to  whom  effusiveness  is  easy  there  is  a 
delicious  hour  that  falls  when  it  is  not  yet  night, 
but  is  no  longer  day;  the  twilight  gleam  throws 
softened  lights  or  tricksy  reflections  on  every  object,  and 
favors  a  dreamy  mood  which  vaguely  weds  itself  to  the 
play  of  light  and  shade.  The  silence  which  generally  pre- 
vails at  that  time  makes  it  particularly  dear  to  artists,  who 
grow  contemplative,  stand  a  few  paces  back  from  the  pic- 
tures on  which  they  can  no  longer  work,  and  pass  judgment 
on  them,  rapt  by  the  subject  whose  most  recondite  meaning 
then  flashes  on  the  inner  eye  of  genius.  •  He  who  has  never 
stood  pensive  by  a  friend's  side  in  such  an  hour  of  poetic 
dreaming  can  hardly  understand  its  inexpressible  soothing- 
ness.  Favored  by  the  clare-obscure,  the  material  skill  em- 
ployed by  art  to  produce  illusion  entirely  disappears.  If  the 
work  is  a  picture,  the  figures  represented  seem  to  speak  and 
walk;  the  shade  is  shadow,  the  light  is  day;  the  flesh  lives, 
eyes  move,  blood  flows  in  their  veins,  and  stuffs  have  a 

(149) 


150  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

changing  sheen.  Imagination  helps  the  realism  of  every 
detail,  and  only  sees  the  beauties  of  the  work.  At  that 
hour  illusion  reigns  despotically;  perhaps  it  wakes  at  night- 
fall! Is  not  illusion  a  sort  of  night  to  the  mind,  which  we 
people  with  dreams  ?  Illusion  then  unfolds  its  wings,  it 
bears  the  soul  aloft  to  the  world  of  fancies,  a  world  full  of 
voluptuous  imaginings,  where  the  artist  forgets  the  real 
world,  yesterday  and  the  morrow,  the  future — everything 
down  to  its  miseries,  the  good  and  the  evil  alike. 

At  this  magic  hour  a  young  painter,  a  man  of  talent,  who 
saw  in  art  nothing  but  Art  itself,  was  perched  on  a  step-ladder 
which  helped  him  to  work  at  a  large  high  painting,  now  nearly 
finished.  Criticising  himself,  honestly  admiring  himself,  float- 
ing on  the  current  of  his  thoughts,  he  then  lost  himself  in  one 
of  those  meditative  moods  which  ravish  and  elevate  the  soul, 
soothe  it,  and  comfort  it.  His  revery  had  no  doubt  lasted 
a  long  time.  Night  fell.  Whether  he  meant  to  come  down 
from  his  perch,  or  whether  he  made  some  ill-judged  move- 
ment, believing  himself  to  be  on  the  floor — the  event  did  not 
allow  of  his  remembering  exactly  the  cause  of  his  accident 
— he  fell,  his  head  struck  a  footstool,  he  lost  consciousness 
and  lay  motionless  during  a  space  of  time  of  which  he  knew 
not  the  length. 

A  sweet  voice  roused  him  from  the  stunned  condition  into 
which  he  had  sunk.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  the  flash  of 
a  bright  light  made  him  close  them  again  immediately;  but 
through  the  mist  that  veiled  his  senses  he  heard  the  whisper- 
ing of  two  women,  and  felt  two  young,  two  timid  hands  on 
which  his  head  was  resting.  He  soon  recovered  conscious- 
ness, and  by  the  light  of  an  old-fashioned  Argand  lamp  he 
could  make  out  the  most  charming  girl's  face  he  had  ever 
seen,  one  of  those  heads  which  are  often  supposed  to  be  a 
freak  of  the  brush,  but  which  to  him  suddenly  realized  the 
theories  of  the  ideal  beauty  which  every  artist  creates  for 
himself,  and  whence  his  art  proceeds.  The  features  of  the 
unknown  belonged,  so  to  say,  to  the  refined  and  delicate 
type  of  Prudhon's  school,  but  had  also  the  poetic  sentiment 


THE   PURSE  151 

which  Girodet  gave  to  the  inventions  of  his  fantasy.  The 
freshness  of  the  temples,  the  regular  arch  of  the  eyebrows, 
the  purity  of  outline,  the  virginal  innocence  so  plainly 
stamped  on  every  feature  of  her  countenance,  made  the  girl 
a  perfect  creature.  Her  figure  was  slight  and  graceful,  and 
frail  in  form.  Her  dress,  though  simple  and  neat,  revealed 
neither  wealth  nor  penury. 

As  he  recovered  his  senses,  the  painter  gave  expression 
to  his  admiration  by  a  look  of  surprise,  and  stammered  some 
confused  thanks.  He  found  a  handkerchief  pressed  to  his 
forehead,  and  above  the  smell  peculiar  to  a  studio,  he  recog- 
nized the  strong  odor  of  ether,  applied  no  doubt  to  revive 
him  from  his  fainting  fit.  Finally  he  saw  an  old  woman, 
looking  like  a  marquise  of  the  old  school,  who  held  the  lamp 
and  was  advising  the  young  girl. 

' '  Monsieur, ' '  said  the  younger  woman  in  reply  to  one  of 
the  questions  put  by  the  painter  during  the  few  minutes 
when  he  was  still  under  the  influence  of  the  vagueness  that 
the  shock  had  produced  in  his  ideas,  "my  mother  and  I  heard 
the  noise  of  your  fall  on  the  floor,  and  we  fancied  we  heard 
a  groan.  The  silence  following  on  the  crash  alarmed  us,  and 
we  hurried  up.  Finding  the  key  in  the  latch,  we  happily 
took  the  liberty  of  entering,  and  we  found  you  lying  motion- 
less on  the  ground.  My  mother  went  to  fetch  what  was 
needed  to  bathe  your  head  and  revive  you.  You  have  cut 
your  forehead — there.  Do  you  feel  it?" 

"Yes,  I  do  now,"  he  replied. 

"Oh,  it  will  be  nothing,"  said  the  old  mother.  "Happily 
your  head  rested  against  this  lay-figure." 

"I  feel  infinitely  better,"  replied  the  painter.  "I  need 
nothing  further  but  a  hackney  cab  to  take  me  home.  The 
porter's  wife  will  go  for  one." 

He  tried  to  repeat  his  thanks  to  the  two  strangers ;  but  at 
each  sentence  the  elder  lady  interrupted  him,  saying,  "To- 
morrow, Monsieur,  pray  be  careful  to  put  on  leeches,  or  to 
be  bled,  and  drink  a  few  cups  of  something  healing.  A  fall 
may  be  dangerous." 


152  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

The  young  girl  stole  a  look  at  the  painter  and  at  the  pic- 
tures in  the  studio.  Her  expression  and  her  glances  revealed 
perfect  propriety;  her  curiosity  seemed  rather  absence  of  mind, 
and  her  eyes  seemed  to  speak  the  interest  which  women  feel, 
with  the  most  engaging  spontaneity,  in  everything  which 
causes  us  suffering.  The  two  strangers  seemed  to  forget  the 
painter's  works  in  the  painter's  mishap.  When  he  had  re- 
assured them  as  to  his  condition  they  left,  looking  at  him 
with  an  anxiety  that  was  equally  free  from  insistence  and 
from  familiarity,  without  asking  any  indiscreet  questions,  or 
trying  to  incite  him  to  any  wish  to  visit  them.  Their  pro- 
ceedings all  bore  the  hall-mark  of  natural  refinement  and 
good  taste.  Their  noble  and  simple  manners  at  first  made 
no  great  impression  on  the  painter,  but  subsequently,  as  he 
recalled  all  the  details  of  the  incident,  he  was  greatly  struck 
by  them. 

When  they  reached  the  floor  beneath  that  occupied  by 
the  painter's  studio,  the  old  lady  gently  observed,  "Ade- 
laide, you  left  the  door  open." 

"That  was  to  come  to  my  assistance,"  said  the  painter, 
with  a  grateful  smile. 

"You  came  down  just  now,  mother,"  replied  the  young 
girl,  with  a  blush. 

"Would  you  like  us  to  accompany  you  all  the  way  down- 
stairs?" asked  the  mother.  "The  stairs  are  dark. " 

"No,  thank  you,  indeed,  Madame;   I  am  much  better." 

"Hold  tightly  by  the  rail." 

The  two  women  remained  on  the  landing  to  light  the 
young  man,  listening  to  the  sound  of  his  steps. 

In  order  to  set  forth  clearly  all  the  exciting  and  unex- 
pected interest  this  scene  might  have  for  the  young  painter, 
it  must  be  told  that  he  had  only  a  few  days  since  established 
his  studio  in  the  attics  of  this  house,  situated  in  the  darkest 
and,  therefore,  the  most  muddy  part  of  the  Hue  de  Suresnes, 
almost  opposite  the  Church  of  the  Madeleine,  and  quite  close 
to  his  rooms  in  the  Rue  des  Champs-Elysdes.  The  fame  his 


THE   PURSE  153 

talent  had  won  him  having  made  him  one  of  the  artists  most 
dear  to  his  country,  he  was  beginning  to  feel  free  from  want, 
and,  to  use  his  own  expression,  was  enjoying  his  last  priva- 
tions. Instead  of  going  to  his  work  in  one  of  the  studios 
near  the  city  gates,  where  the  moderate  rents  had  hitherto 
been  in  proportion  to  his  humble  earnings,  he  had  gratified 
a  wish  that  was  new  every  morning,  by  sparing  himself  a 
long  walk,  and  the  loss  of  much  time,  now  more  valuable 
than  ever. 

No  man  in  the  world  would  have  inspired  feelings  of 
greater  interest  than  Hippolyte  Schinner  if  he  would  ever 
have  consented  to  make  acquaintance;  but  he  did  not  lightly 
intrust  to  others  the  secrets  of  his  life.  He  was  the  idol  of 
a  necessitous  mother,  who  had  brought  him  up  at  the  cost 
of  the  severest  privations.  Mademoiselle  Schinner,  the 
daughter  of  an  Alsatian  farmer,  had  never  been  married. 
Her  tender  soul  had  been  cruelly  crushed,  long  ago,  by  a 
rich  man,  who  did  not  pride  himself  on  any  great  delicacy 
in  his  love  affairs.  The  day  when,  as  a  young  girl,  in  all 
the  radiance  of  her  beauty  and  all  the  triumph  of  her  life, 
she  suffered,  at  the  cost  of  her  heart  and  her  sweet  illusions, 
the  disenchantment  which  falls  on  us  so  slowly  and  yet  so 
quickly — for  we  try  to  postpone  as  long  as  possible  our  belief 
in  evil,  and  it  seems  to  come  too  soon — that  day  was  a  whole 
age  of  reflection,  and  it  was  also  a  day  of  religious  thought 
and  resignation.  She  refused  the  alms  of  the  man  who  had 
betrayed  her,  renounced  the  world,  and  made  a  glory  of  her 
shame.  She  gave  herself  up  entirely  to  her  motherly  love, 
seeking  in  it  all  her  joys  in  exchange  for  the  social  pleasures 
to  which  she  bid  farewell.  She  lived  by  work,  saving  up 
a  treasure  in  her  son.  And,  in  after  years,  a  day,  an  hour 
repaid  her  amply  for  the  long  and  weary  sacrifices  of  her 
indigence. 

At  the  last  exhibition  her  son  had  received  the  Cross  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor.  The  newspapers,  unanimous  in  hail- 
ing an  unknown  genius,  still  rang  with  sincere  praises.  Ar- 
tists themselves  acknowledged  Schinner  as  a  master,  and  deal- 


154  BALZAC 'S    WORKS 

ers  covered  his  canvases  with  gold  pieces.  At  five-and-twenty 
Hippolyte  Schinner,  to  whom  his  mother  had  transmitted  her 
woman's  soul,  understood  more  clearly  than  ever  his  position 
in  the  world.  Anxious  to  restore  to  his  mother  the  pleas- 
ures of  which  society  had  so  long  robbed  her,  he  lived  for 
her,  hoping  by  the  aid  of  fame  and  fortune  to  see  her  one 
day  happy,  rich,  respected,  and  surrounded  by  men  of  mark. 
Schinner  had  therefore  chosen  his  friends  among  the  most 
honorable  and  distinguished  men.  Fastidious  in  the  selec- 
tion of  his  intimates,  he  desired  to  raise  still  further  a  posi- 
tion which  his  talent  had  placed  high.  The  work  to  which 
he  had  devoted  himself  from  boyhood,  by  compelling  him 
to  dwell  in  solitude — the  mother  of  great  thoughts — had  left 
him  the  beautiful  beliefs  which  grace  the  early  days  of  life. 
His  adolescent  soul  was  not  closed  to  any  of  the  thousand 
bashful  emotions  by  which  a  young  man  is  a  being  apart, 
whose  heart  abounds  in  joys,  in  poetry,  in  virginal  hopes, 
puerile  in  the  eyes  of  men  of  the  world,  but  deep  because 
they  are  single-hearted. 

He  was  endowed  with  the  gentle  and  polite  manners  which 
speak  to  the  soul,  and  fascinate  even  those  who  do  not  un- 
derstand them.  He  was  well  made.  His  voice,  coming  from 
his  heart,  stirred  that  of  others  to  noble  sentiments,  and  bore 
witness  to  his  true  modesty  by  a  certain  ingenuousness  of 
tone.  Those  who  saw  him  felt  drawn  to  him  by  that  attrac- 
tion of  the  moral  nature  which  men  of  science  are  happily 
unable  to  analyze;  they  would  detect  in  it  some  phenomenon 
of  galvanism,  or  the  current  of  I  know  not  what  fluid,  and 
express  our  sentiments  in  a  formula  of  ratios  of  oxygen  and 
electricity. 

These  details  will  perhaps  explain  to  strong-minded  per- 
sons and  to  men  of  fashion  why,  in  the  absence  of  the  porter 
whom  he  had  sent  to  the  end  of  the  Eue  de  la  Madeleine  to 
call  him  a  coach,  Hippolyte  Schinner  did  not  ask  the  man's 
wife  any  questions  concerning  the  two  women  whose  kind- 
ness of  heart  had  shown  itself  in  his  behalf.  But  though 
he  replied  Yes  or  No  to  the  inquiries,  natural  under  the  cir- 


THE   PURSE  155 

cumstances,  which  the  good  woman  made  as  to  his  accident, 
and  the  friendly  intervention  of  the  tenants  occupying  the 
fourth  floor,  he  could  not  hinder  her  from  following  the  in- 
stinct of  her  kind;  she  mentioned  the  two  strangers,  speak- 
ing of  them  as  prompted  by  the  interests  of  her  policy  and 
the  subterranean  opinions  of  the  porter's  lodge. 

"Ah,"  said  she,  "they  were,  no  doubt,  Mademoiselle 
Leseigneur  and  her  mother,  who  have  lived  here  these  four 
years.  We  do  not  yet  know  exactly  what  these  ladies  do; 
in  the  morning,  only  till  the  hour  of  noon,  an  old  woman 
who  is  half  deaf,  and  who  never  speaks  any  more  than  a 
wall,  comes  in  to  help  them;  in  the  evening,  two  or  three 
old  gentlemen,  with  loops  of  ribbon,  like  you,  Monsieur, 
come  to  see  them,  and  often  stay  very  late.  One  of  them 
comes  in  a  carriage  with  servants,  and  is  said  to  have  sixty 
thousand  francs  a  year.  However,  they  are  very  quiet  ten- 
ants, as  you  are,  Monsieur;  and  economical!  they  live  on 
nothing,  and  as  soon  as  a  letter  is  brought  they  pay  for  it. 
It  is  a  queer  thing,  Monsieur,  the  mother's  name  is  not  the 
same  as  the  daughter's.  Ah,  but  when  they  go  for  a  walk 
in  the  Tuileries  Mademoiselle  is  very  smart,  and  she  never 
goes  out  but  she  is  followed  by  a  lot  of  young  men;  but  she 
shuts  the  door  in  their  face,  and  she  is  quite  right.  The 
proprietor  would  never  allow — " 

The  coach  having  come,  Hippolyte  heard  no  more,  and 
went  home.  His  mother,  to  whom  he  related  his  adventure, 
dressed  his  wound  afresh,  and  would  not  allow  him  to  go  to 
the  studio  next  day.  After  taking  advice,  various  treat- 
ments were  prescribed,  and  Hippolyte  remained  at  home 
three  days.  During  this  retirement  his  idle  fancy  recalled 
vividly,  bit  by  bit,  the  details  of  the  scene  that  had  ensued 
on  his  fainting  fit.  The  young  girl's  profile  was  clearly  pro- 
jected against  the  darkness  of  his  inward  vision;  he  saw  once 
more  the  mother's  faded  features,  or  he  felt  the  touch  of  Ade*- 
laide's  hands.  He  remembered  some  gesture  which  at  first 
had  not  greatly  struck  him,  but  whose  exquisite  grace  was 
thrown  into  relief  by  memory;  then  an  attitude,  or  the  tones 


156  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

of  a  melodious  voice,  enhanced  by  the  distance  of  remem- 
brance, suddenly  rose  before  him,  as  objects  plunging  to  the 
bottom  of  deep  waters  come  back  to  the  surface. 

So,  on  the  day  when  he  could  resume  work,  he  went  early 
to  his  studio;  but  the  visit  he  undoubtedly  had  a  right  to 
pay  to  his  neighbors  was  the  true  cause  of  his  haste;  he  had 
already  forgotten  the  pictures  he  had  begun.  At  the  mo- 
ment when  a  passion  throws  off  its  swaddling  clothes,  inex- 
plicable pleasures  are  felt,  known  to  those  who  have  loved. 
So  some  readers  will  understand  why  the  painter  mounted 
the  stairs  to  the  fourth  floor  but  slowly,  and  will  be  in  the 
secret  of  the  throbs  that  followed  each  other  so  rapidly  in 
his  heart  at  the  moment  when  he  saw  the  humble  brown  door 
of  the  rooms  inhabited  by  Mademoiselle  Leseigneur.  This 
girl,  whose  name  was  not  the  same  as  her  mother's,  had 
aroused  the  young  painter's  deepest  sympathies,  he  chose 
to  fancy  some  similarity  between  himself  and  her  as  to  their 
position,  and  attributed  to  her  misfortunes  of  birth  akin  to 
his  own.  All  the  time  he  worked  Hippolyte  gave  himself 
very  willingly  to  thoughts  of  love,  and  made  a  great  deal 
of  noise  to  compel  the  two  ladies  to  think  of  him,  as  he  was 
thinking  of  them.  He  stayed  late  at  the  studio  and  dined 
there;  then,  at  about  seven  o'clock,  he  went  down  to  call  on 
his  neighbors. 

No  painter  of  manners  has  ventured  to  initiate  us — 
perhaps  out  of  modesty — into  the  really  curious  privacy  of 
certain  Parisian  existences,  into  the  secret  of  the  dwellings 
whence  emerge  such  fresh  and  elegant  toilets,  such  brilliant 
women,  who,  rich  on  the  surface,  allow  the  signs  of  very 
doubtful  comfort  to  peep  out  in  every  part  of  their  home. 
If,  here,  the  picture  is  too  boldly  drawn,  if  you  find  it  tedi- 
ous in  places,  do  not  blame  the  description,  which  is,  indeed, 
part  and  parcel  of  my  story;  for  the  appearance  of  the  rooms 
inhabited  by  his  two  neighbors  had  a  great  influence  on  the 
feelings  and  hopes  of  Hippolyte  Schinner. 

The  house  belonged  to  one  of  those  proprietors  in  whom 
there  is  a  foregone  and  profound  horror  of  repairs  and  deco- 


THE   PURSE  157 

ration,  one  of  the  men  who  regard  their  position  as  Paris 
house-owners  as  a  business.  In  the  vast  chain  of  moral 
species,  these  people  hold  a  middle  place  between  the  miser 
and  the  usurer.  Optimists  in  their  own  interests,  they  are 
all  faithful  to  the  Austrian  status  quo.  If  you  speak  of  mov- 
ing a  cupboard  or  a  door,  of  opening  the  most  indispensable 
air-hole,  their  eyes  flash,  their  bile  rises,  they  rear  like  a 
frightened  horse.  When  the  wind  blows  down  a  few  chim- 
ney-pots they  are  quite  ill,  and  deprive  themselves  of  an 
evening  at  the  Gymnase  or  the  Porte-Saint-Martin  Theatre, 
"on  account  of  repairs."  Hippolyte,  who  had  seen  the  per- 
formance gratis  of  a  comical  scene  with  Monsieur  Molineux 
as  concerning  certain  decorative  repairs  in  his  studio,  was 
not  surprised  to  see  the  dark  greasy  paint,  the  oily  stains, 
spots,  and  other  disagreeable  accessories  that  varied  the 
woodwork.  And  these  stigmata  of  poverty  are  not  alto- 
gether devoid  of  poetry  in  an  artist's  eyes. 

Mademoiselle  Leseigneur  herself  opened  the  door.  On 
recognizing  the  young  artist  she  bowed,  and  at  the  same 
time,  with  Parisian  adroitness,  and  with  the  presence  of 
mind  that  pride  can  lend,  she  turned  round  to  shut  a  door 
in  a  glass  partition  through  which  Hippolyte  might  have 
caught  sight  of  some  linen  hung  by  lines  over  patent  ironing 
stoves,  an  old  camp-bed,  some  wood-embers,  charcoal,  irons, 
a  filter,  the  household  crockery,  and  all  the  utensils  familiar 
to  a  small  household.  Muslin  curtains,  fairly  white,  care- 
fully screened  this  lumber-room  —  a  capharnaum,  as  the 
French  call  such  a  domestic  laboratory — which  was  lighted 
by  windows  looking  out  on  a  neighboring  yard. 

Hippolyte,  with  the  quick  eye  of  an  artist,  saw  the  uses, 
the  furniture,  the  general  effect  and  condition  of  this  first 
room,  thus  cut  in  half.  The  more  honorable  half,  which 
served  both  as  anteroom  and  dining-room,  was  hung  with 
an  old  salmon-rose-colored  paper,  with  a  flock  border,  the 
manufacture  of  Reveillon,  no  doubt;  the  holes  and  spots  had 
been  carefully  touched  over  with  wafers.  Prints  represent- 
ing the  battles  of  Alexander,  by  Lebrun,  in  frames  with 


158  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

the  gilding  rubbed  off,  were  symmetrically  arranged  on  the 
walls.  In  the  middle  stood  a  massive  mahogany  table,  old- 
fashioned  in  shape,  and  worn  at  the  edges.  A  small  stove, 
whose  thin  straight  pipe  was  scarcely  visible,  stood  in  front 
of  the  chimney-place,  but  the  hearth  was  occupied  by  a 
cupboard.  By  a  strange  contrast  the  chairs  showed  some 
remains  of  former  splendor;  they  were  of  carved  mahog- 
any, but  the  red  morocco  seats,  the  gilt  nails  and  reeded 
backs,  showed  as  many  scars  as  an  old  sergeant  of  the  Im- 
perial Gruard. 

This  room  did  duty  as  a  museum  of  certain  objects,  such 
as  are  never  seen  but  in  this  kind  of  amphibious  household; 
nameless  objects  with  the  stamp  at  once  of  luxury  and  pen- 
ury. Among  other  curiosities,  Hippolyte  noticed  a  splen- 
didly finished  telescope,  hanging  over  the  small  discolored 
glass  that  decorated  the  chimney.  To  harmonize  with  this 
strange  collection  of  furniture  there  was,  between  the  chim- 
ney and  the  partition,  a  wretched  sideboard  of  painted  wood, 
pretending  to  be  mahogany,  of  all  woods  the  most  impossible 
to  imitate.  But  the  slippery  red  quarries,  the  shabby  little 
rugs  in  front  of  the  chairs,  and  all  the  furniture,  shone  with 
the  hard-rubbing  cleanliness  which  lends  a  treacherous  lus- 
tre to  old  things  by  making  their  defects,  their  age,  and 
their  long  service  still  more  conspicuous.  An  indescrib- 
able odor  pervaded  the  room,  a  mingled  smell  of  the  ex- 
halations from  the  lumber-room,  and  the  vapors  of  the  din- 
ing-room, with  those  from  the  stairs,  though  the  window 
was  partly  open.  The  air  from  the  street  fluttered  the  dusty 
curtains,  which  were  carefully  drawn  so  as  to  hide  the  win- 
dow bay,  where  former  tenants  had  testified  to  their  presence 
by  various  ornamental  additions — a  sort  of  domestic  fresco. 

Adelaide  hastened  to  open  the  door  of  the  inner  room, 
where  she  announced  the  painter  with  evident  pleasure. 
Hippolyte,  who,  of  yore,  had  seen  the  same  signs  of  pov- 
erty in  his  mother's  home,  noted  them  with  the  singular 
vividness  of  impression  which  characterizes  the  earliest 
acquisitions  of  memory,  and  entered  into  the  details  of 


THE   PURSE  159 

this  existence  better  than  any  one  else  would  have  done. 
As  he  recognized  the  facts  of  his  life  as  a  child,  the  kind 
young  fellow  felt  neither  scorn  for  disguised  misfortune  nor 
pride  in  the  luxury  he  had  lately  conquered  for  his  mother. 

"Well,  Monsieur,  I  hope  you  no  Conger  feel  the  effects 
of  your  fall,"  said  the  old  lady,  rising  from  an  antique 
armchair  that  stood  by  the  chimney,  and  offering  him  a 
seat. 

"No,  Madame.  I  have  come  to  thank  you  for  the  kind 
care  you  gave  me,  and  above  all  Mademoiselle,  who  heard 
me  fall." 

As  he  uttered  this  speech,  stamped  with  the  exquisite 
stupidity  given  to  the  mind  by  the  first  disturbing  symp- 
toms of  true  love,  Hippolyte  looked  at  the  young  girl. 
Adelaide  was  lighting  the  Argand  lamp,  no  doubt,  that 
she  might  get  rid  of  a  tallow  candle  fixed  in  a  large  copper 
flat-candlestick,  and  graced  with  a  heavy  fluting  of  grease 
from  its  guttering.  She  answered  with  a  slight  bow,  car- 
ried the  flat-candlestick  into  the  anteroom,  came  back,  and 
after  placing  the  lamp  on  the  chimney-shelf,  seated  herself 
by  her  mother,  a  little  behind  the  painter,  so  as  to  be  able 
to  look  at  him  at  her  ease,  while  apparently  much  inter- 
ested in  the  burning  of  the  lamp;  the  flame,  checked  by 
the  damp  in  a  dingy  chimney,  sputtered  as  it  struggled 
with  a  charred  and  badly  trimmed  wick.  Hippolyte,  see- 
ing the  large  mirror  that  decorated  the  chimney  piece,  im- 
mediately fixed  his  eyes  on  it  to  admire  Adelaide.  Thus 
the  girl's  little  stratagem  only  served  to  embarrass  them 
both. 

While  talking  with  Madame  Leseigneur,  for  Hippolyte 
called  her  so,  on  the  chance  of  being  right,  he  examined 
the  room,  but  unobtrusively  and  by  stealth. 

The  Egyptian  figures  on  the  iron  fire-dogs  were  scarcely 
visible,  the  hearth  was  so  heaped  with  cinders;  two  brands 
tried  to  meet  in  front  of  a  sham  log  of  fire-brick,  as  carefully 
buried  as  a  miser's  treasure  could  ever  be.  An  old  Aubus- 
son  carpet,  very  much  faded,  very  much  mended,  and  as 


160  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

worn  as  a  pensioner's  coat,  did  not  cover  the  whole  of  the 
tiled  floor,  and  the  cold  struck  to  his  feet.  The  walls  were 
hung  with  a  reddish  paper,  imitating  figured  silk  with  a 
yellow  pattern.  In  the  middle  of  the  wall  opposite  the 
windows  the  painter  saw  a  crack,  and  the  outline  marked 
on  the  paper  of  double-doors,  shutting  off  a  recess  where 
Madame  Leseigneur  slept  no  doubt,  a  fact  ill  disguised  by 
a  sofa  in  front  of  the  door.  Facing  the  chimney,  above  a 
mahogany  chest  of  drawers  of  handsome  and  tasteful  de- 
sign, was  the  portrait  of  an  officer  of  rank,  which  the  dim 
light  did  not  allow  him  to  see  well;  but  from  what  he 
could  make  out  he  thought  that  the  fearful  daub  must 
have  been  painted  in  China.  The  window-curtains'  of  red 
silk  were  as  much  faded  as  the  furniture,  in  red  and  yellow 
worsted  work,  if  this  room  "contrived  a  double  debt  to 
pay."  On  the  marble  top  of  the  chest  of  drawers  was  a 
costly  malachite  tray,  with  a  dozen  coffee  cups  magnifi- 
cently painted,  and  made,  no  doubt,  at  Sevres.  On  the 
chimney-shelf  stood  the  omnipresent  Empire  clock:  a  war- 
rior driving  the  four  horses  of  a  chariot,  whose  wheel  bore 
the  numbers  of  the  hours  on  its  spokes.  The  tapers  in  the 
tall  candlesticks  were  yellow  with  smoke,  and  at  each  cor- 
ner of  the  shelf  stood  a  porcelain  vase  crowned  with  artifi- 
cial flowers  full  of  dust  and  stuck  into  moss. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  Hippolyte  remarked  a  card- 
table  ready  for  play,  with  new  packs  of  cards.  For  an  ob- 
server there  was  something  heartrending  in  the  sight  of  this 
misery  painted  up  like  an  old  woman  who  wants  to  falsify 
her  face.  At  such  a  sight  every  man  of  sense  must  at  once 
have  stated  to  himself  this  obvious  dilemma — either  these 
two  women  are  honesty  itself,  or  they  live  by  intrigue  and 
gambling.  But  on  looking  at  Adelaide,  a  man  so  pure- 
minded  as  Schinner  could  not  but  believe  in  her  perfect 
innocence,  and  ascribe  the  incoherence  of  the  furniture  to 
honorable  causes. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  old  lady  to  the  young  one,  "I  am 
cold;  make  a  little  fire,  and  give  me  my  shawl." 


THE   PURSE  181 

Adelaide  went  into  a  room  next  the  drawing-room,  where 
she  no  doubt  slept,  and  returned  bringing  her  mother  a  cash- 
mere shawl,  which  when  new  must  have  been  very  costly; 
the  pattern  was  Indian;  but  it  was  old,  faded,  and  full  of 
darns,  and  matched  the  furniture.  Madame  Leseigneur 
wrapped  herself  in  it  very  artistically,  and  with  the  readi- 
ness of  an  old  woman  who  wishes  to  make  her  words  seem 
truth.  The  young  girl  ran  lightly  off  to  the  lumber-room 
and  reappeared  with  a  bundle  of  small  wood,  which  she 
gallantly  threw  on  the  fire  to  revive  it. 

It  would  be  rather  difficult  to  reproduce  the  conversa- 
tion which  followed  among  these  three  persons.  Hippo- 
lyte,  guided  by  the  tact  which  is  almost  always  the  outcome 
of  misfortune  suffered  in  early  youth,  dared  not  allow  him- 
self to  make  the  least  remark  as  to  his  neighbors'  situation, 
as  he  saw  all  about  him  the  signs  of  ill-disguised  poverty. 
The  simplest  question  would  have  been  an  indiscretion,  and 
could  only  be  ventured  on  by  old  friendship.  The  painter 
was  nevertheless  absorbed  in  the  thought  of  this  concealed 
penury,  it  pained  his  generous  soul;  but  knowing  how  of- 
fensive every  kind  of  pity  may  be,  even  the  friendliest,  the 
disparity  between  his  thoughts  and  his  words  made  him  feel 
uncomfortable. 

The  two  ladies  at  first  talked  of  painting,  for  women 
easily  guess  the  secret  embarrassment  of  a  first  call;  they 
themselves  feel  it  perhaps,  and  the  nature  of  their  mind 
supplies  them  with  a  thousand  devices  to  put  an  end  to  it. 
By  questioning  the  young  man  as  to  the  material  exercise 
of  his  art,  and  as  to  his  studies,  Adelaide  and  her  mother 
emboldened  him  to  talk.  The  indefinable  nothings  of  their 
chat,  animated  by  kind  feeling,  naturally  led  Hippolyte  to 
flash  forth  remarks  or  reflections  which  snowed  the  charac- 
ter of  his  habits  and  of  his  mind.  Trouble  had  prematurely 
faded  the  old  lady's  face,  formerly  handsome,  no  doubt; 
nothing  was  left  but  the  more  prominent  features,  the  out- 
line, in  a  word,  the  skeleton  of  a  countenance  of  which  the 
whole  effect  indicated  great  shrewdness  with  much  grace  in 


162  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

the  play  of  the  eyes,  in  which  could  be  discerned  the  ex- 
pression peculiar  to  women  of  the  old  Court;  an  expression 
that  cannot  be  defined  in  words.  Those  fine  and  mobile 
features  might  quite  as  well  indicate  bad  feelings,  and  sug- 
gest astuteness  and  womanly  artifice  carried  to  a  high  pitch 
of  wickedness,  as  reveal  the  refined  delicacy  of  a  beautiful 
soul. 

Indeed,  the  face  of  a  woman  has  this  element  of  mystery 
to  puzzle  the  ordinary  observer,  that  the  difference  between 
fraDkness  and  duplicity,  the  genius  for  intrigue  and  the 
genius  of  the  heart,  is  there  inscrutable.  A  man  gifted 
with  a  penetrating  eye  can  read  the  intangible  shade  of 
difference  produced  by  a  more  or  less  curved  line,  a  more 
or  less  deep  dimple,  a  more  or  less  prominent  feature.  The 
appreciation  of  these  indications  lies  entirely  in  the  domain 
of  intuition;  this  alone  can  lead  to  the  discovery  of  what 
every  one  is  interested  in  concealing.  This  old  lady's  face 
was  like  the  room  she  inhabited;  it  seemed  as  difficult  to 
detect  whether  this  squalor  covered  vice  or  the  highest 
virtue,  as  to  decide  whether  Adelaide's  mother  was  an  old 
coquette  accustomed  to  weigh,  to  calculate,  to  sell  every- 
thing, or  a  loving  woman,  full  of  noble  feeling  and  amiable 
qualities.  But  at  Schinner's  age  the  first  impulse  of  the 
heart  is  to  believe  in  goodness.  And  indeed,  as  he  studied 
Adelaide's  noble  and  almost  haughty  brow,  as  he  looked 
into  her  eyes  full  of  soul  and  thought,  he  breathed,  so  to 
speak,  the  sweet  and  modest  fragrance  of  virtue.  In  the 
course  of  the  conversation  he  seized  an  opportunity  of  dis- 
cussing portraits  in  general,  to  give  himself  a  pretext  for 
examining  the  frightful  pastel,  of  which  the  color  had 
flown,  and  the  chalk  in  many  places  fallen  away. 

"You  are  attached  to  that  picture  for  the  sake  of  the 
likeness,  no  doubt,  Mesdames,  for  the  drawing  is  dread- 
ful?" he  said,  looking  at  Adelaide. 

"It  was  done  at  Calcutta,  in  great  haste,"  replied  the 
mother,  in  an  agitated  voice. 

She  gazed  at  the  formless  sketch  with  the  deep  absorp- 


THE   PURSE  163 

tion  which  memories  of  happiness  produce  when  they  are 
roused  and  fall  on  the  heart  like  a  beneficent  dew  to  whose 
refreshing  touch  we  love  to  yield  ourselves  up;  but  in  the 
expression  of  the  old  lady's  face  there  were  traces  too  of 
perennial  regret.  At  least,  it  was  thus  that  the  painter 
chose  to  interpret  her  attitude  and  countenance,  and  he 
presently  sat  down  again  by  her  side. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  "in  a  very  short  time  the  colors  of 
that  pastel  will  have  disappeared.  The  portrait  will  only 
survive  in  your  memory.  Where  you  will  still  see  the 
face  that  is  dear  to  you,  others  will  see  nothing  at  all. 
Will  you  allow  me  to  reproduce  the  likeness  on  canvas  ? 
It  will  be  more  permanently  recorded  then  than  on  that 
sheet  of  paper.  Grant  me,  I  beg,  as  a  neighborly  favor 
the  pleasure  of  doing  you  this  service.  There  are  times 
when  an  artist  is  glad  of  a  respite  from  his  greater  under- 
takings by  doing  work  of  less  lofty  pretensions,  so  it  will 
be  a  recreation  for  me  to  paint  that  head." 

The  old  lady  flushed  as  she  heard  the  painter's  words, 
and  Adelaide  shot  one  of  those  glances  of  deep  feeling 
which  seem  to  flash  from  the  soul.  Hippolyte  wanted  to 
feel  some  tie  linking  him  with  his  two  neighbors,  to  con- 
quer a  right  to  mingle  in  their  life.  His  offer,  appealing 
as  it  did  to  the  liveliest  affections  of  the  heart,  was  the 
only  one  he  could  possibly  make;  it  gratified  his  pride  as 
an  artist,  and  could  not  hurt  the  feelings  of  the  ladies. 
Madame  Leseigneur  accepted,  without  eagerness  or  reluc- 
tance, but  with  the  self-possession  of  a  noble  soul,  fully 
aware  of  the  character  of  bonds  formed  by  such  an  obliga- 
tion, while,  at  the  same  time,  they  are  its  highest  glory  as 
a  proof  of  esteem. 

"I  fancy,"  said  the  painter,  "that  the  uniform  is  that  of 
a  naval  officer?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that  of  a  captain  in  command  of  a 
vessel.  Monsieur  de  Rouville — my  husband — died  at  Ba- 
tavia  in  consequence  of  a  wound  received  in  a  fight  with 
an  English  ship  they  fell  in  with  off  the  Asiatic  coast.  He 


164  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

commanded  a  frigate  of  fifty -six  guns,  and  the  'Revenge' 
carried  ninety-six.  The  struggle  was  very  unequal,  but 
he  defended  his  ship  so  bravely  that  he  held  out  till  night- 
fall and  got  away.  When  I  came  back  to  France,  Bonaparte 
was  not  yet  in  power,  and  I  was  refused  a  pension.  When 
I  applied  again  for  it,  quite  lately,  I  was  sternly  informed 
that  if  the  Baron  de  Rouville  had  emigrated  I  should  not 
have  lost  him;  that  by  this  time  he  would  have  been  rear- 
admiral;  finally,  his  Excellency  quoted  I  know  not  what 
decree  of  forfeiture.  I  took  this  step,  to  which  I  was 
urged  "by  my  friends,  only  for  the  sake  of  my  poor  Ade*- 
laide.  I  have  always  hated  the  idea  of  holding  out  my 
hand  as  a  beggar  in  the  name  of  a  grief  which  deprives  a 
woman  of  voice  and  strength.  I  do  not  like  this  money 
valuation  for  blood  irreparably  spilled — " 

"Dear  mother,  this  subject  always  does  you  harm." 

In  response  to  this  remark  from  Adelaide,  the  Baronne 
Leseigneur  bowed,  and  was  silent. 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  young  girl  to  Hippolyte,  "I  had 
supposed  that  a  painter's  work  was  generally  fairly  quiet?" 

At  this  question  Schinner  colored,  remembering  the 
noise  he  had  made.  Adelaide  said  no  more,  and  spared 
him  a  falsehood  by  rising  at  the  sound  of  a  carriage  stop- 
ping at  the  door.  She  went  into  her  own  room,  and  re- 
turned carrying  a  pair  of  tall  gilt  candlesticks  with  partly 
burned  wax  candles,  which  she  quickly  lighted,  and  with- 
out waiting  for  the  bell  to  ring,  she  opened  the  door  of  the 
outer  room,  where  she  set  the  lamp  down.  The  sound  of  a 
kiss  given  and  received  found  an  echo  in  Hippolyte's  heart. 
The  young  man's  impatience  to  see  the  man  who  treated 
Adelaide  with  so  much  familiarity  was  not  immediately 
gratified;  the  new-comers  had  a  conversation,  which  he 
thought  very  long,  in  an  undertone,  with  the  young  girl. 

At  last  Mademoiselle  de  Rouville  returned,  followed  by 
two  men,  whose  costume,  countenance,  and  appearance  are 
a  long  story. 

The  first,  a  man  of  about  sixty,  wore  one  of  the  coats 


THE   PURSE  165 

invented,  I  believe,  for  Louis  XVIII.,  then  on  the  throne, 
in  which  the  most  difficult  problem  of  the  sartorial  art  had 
been  solved  by  a  tailor  who  ought  to  be  immortal.  That 
artist  certainly  understood  the  art  of  compromise,  which  was 
the  moving  genius  of  that  period  of  shifting  politics.  Is  it 
not  a  rare  merit  to  be  able  to  take  the  measure  of  the  time  ? 
This  coat,  which  the  young  men  of  the  present  day  may  con- 
ceive to  be  fabulous,  was  neither  civil  nor  military,  and 
might  pass  for  civil  or  military  by  turns.  Fleurs-de-lis  were 
embroidered  on  the  lapels  of  the  back  skirts.  The  gilt  but- 
tons also  bore  fleurs-de-lis;  on  the  shoulders  a  pair  of  straps 
cried  out  for  useless  epaulets ;  these  military  appendages  were 
there  like  a  petition  without  a  recommendation.  This  old 
gentleman's  coat  was  of  dark  blue  cloth,  and  the  buttonhole 
bad  blossomed  into  many  colored  ribbons.  He,  no  doubt, 
always  carried  his  hat  in  his  hand^-a  three-cornered  cocked 
hat,  with  a  gold  cord — for  the  snowy  wings  of  his  powdered 
hair  showed  not  a  trace  of  its  pressure.  He  might  have  been 
taken  for  not  more  than  fifty  years  of  age,  and  seemed  to 
enjoy  robust  health.  While  wearing  the  frank  and  loyal 
expression  of  the  old  Emigres,  his  countenance  also  hinted 
at  the  easy  habits  of  a  libertine,  at  the  light  and  reckless  pas- 
sions of  the  Musketeers  formerly  so  famous  in  the  annals  of 
gallantry.  His  gestures,  his  attitude,  and  his  manner  pro- 
claimed that  he  had  no  intention  of  correcting  himself  of 
his  royalism,  of  his  religion,  or  of  his  love  affairs. 

A  really  fantastic  figure  came  in  behind  this  specimen  of 
"Louis  XIV. 's  light  infantry" — a  nickname  given  by  the 
Bonapartists  to  these  venerable  survivors  of  the  Monarchy. 
To  do  it  justice  it  ought  to  be  made  the  principal  object  in 
the  picture,  and  it  is  but  an  accessory.  Imagine  a  lean,  dry 
man,  dressed  like  the  former  but  seeming  to  be  only  his  re- 
flection, or  his  shadow,  if  you  will.  The  coat,  new  on  the 
first,  on  the  second  was  old;  the  powder  in  his  hair  looked 
less  white,  the  gold  of  the  fleurs-de-lis  less  bright,  the  shoul- 
der straps  more  hopeless  and  dog's-eared;  his  intellect  seemed 
more  feeble,  his  life  nearer  the  fatal  term  than  in  the  former. 


166  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

In  short,  he  realized  Rivarol's  witticism  on  Champcenetz, 
"He  is  the  moonlight  of  me."  He  was  simply  his  double, 
a  paler  and  poorer  double,  for  there  was  between  them  all 
the  difference  that  lies  between  the  first  and  last  impressions 
of  a  lithograph. 

This  speechless  old  man  was  a  mystery  to  the  painter, 
and  always  remained  a  mystery.  The  Chevalier,  for  he  was 
a  Chevalier,  did  not  speak,  nobody  spoke  to  him.  Was  he  a 
friend,  a  poor  relation,  a  man  who  followed  at  the  old  gal- 
lant's heels  as  a  lady  companion  does  at  an  old  lady's?  Did 
he  fill  a  place  midway  between  a  dog,  a  parrot,  and  a  friend  ? 
Had  he  saved  his  patron's  fortune,  or  only  his  life?  Was 
he  the  Trim  to  another  Captain  Toby?  Elsewhere,  as  at 
the  Baronne  de  Rouville's,  he  always  piqued  curiosity  with- 
out satisfying  it.  Who,  after  the  Restoration,  could  remem- 
ber the  attachment  which,  before  the  Revolution,  had  bound 
this  man  to  his  friend's  wife,  dead  now  these  twenty  years? 

The  leader,  who  appeared  the  least  dilapidated  of  these 
wrecks,  came  gallantly  up  to  Madame  de  Rouville,  kissed 
her  hand,  and  sat  down  by  her.  The  other  bowed  and  placed 
himself  not  far  from  his  model,  at  a  distance  represented  by 
two  chairs.  Adelaide  came  behind  the  old  gentleman's  arm- 
chair and  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  back,  unconsciously  imi- 
tating the  attitude  given  to  Dido's  sister  by  Guerin  in  his 
famous  picture. 

Though  the  gentleman's  familiarity  was  that  of  a  father, 
his  freedom  seemed  at  the  moment  to  annoy  the  young  girl. 

"What,  are  you  sulky  with  me?"  he  said. 

Then  he  shot  at  Schinner  one  of  those  side -looks  full  of 
shrewdness  and  cunning,  diplomatic  looks,  whose  expression 
betrays  the  discreet  uneasiness,  the  polite  curiosity  of  well- 
bred  people,  and  seems  to  ask,  when  they  see  a  stranger, 
"Is  he  one  of  us?" 

"This  is  our  neighbor,"  said  the  old  lady,  pointing  to 
Hippolyte.  "Monsieur  is  a  celebrated  painter,  whose  name 
must  be  known  to  you  in  spite  of  your  indifference  to  the 
arts." 


THE   PURSE  167 

The  old  man  saw  his  friend's  mischievous  intent  in  sup- 
pressing the  name,  and  bowed  to  the  young  man. 

"Certainly,"  said  he.  "I  heard  a  great  deal  about  his 
pictures  at  the  last  Salon.  Talent  has  immense  privileges," 
he  added,  observing  the  artist's  red  ribbon.  "That  distinc- 
tion, which  we  must  earn  at  the  cost  of  our  blood  and  long 
service,  you  win  in  your  youth ;  but  all  glory  is  of  the  same 
kindred,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  his  Cross  of  Saint- 
Louis. 

Hippolyte  murmured  a  few  words  of  acknowledgment, 
and  was  silent  again,  satisfied  to  admire  with  growing  en- 
thusiasm the  beautiful  girl's  head  that  charmed  him  so  much. 
He  was  soon  lost  in  contemplation,  completely  forgetting  the 
extreme  misery  of  the  dwelling.  To  him  Adelaide's  face 
stood  out  against  a  luminous  atmosphere.  He  replied  briefly 
to  the  questions  addressed  to  him,  which,  by  good  luck,  he 
heard,  thanks  to  a  singular  faculty  of  the  soul  which  some- 
times seems  to  have  a  double  consciousness.  Who  has  not 
known  what  it  is  to  sit  lost  in  sad  or  delicious  meditation, 
listening  to  its  voice  within,  while  attending  to  a  conversa- 
tion or  to  reading  ?  An  admirable  duality  which  often  helps 
us  to  tolerate  a  bore!  Hope,  prolific  and  smiling,  poured 
out  before  him  a  thousand  visions  of  happiness;  and  he  re- 
fused to  consider  what  was  going  on  around  him.  As  con- 
fiding as  a  child,  it  seemed  to  him  base  to  analyze  a  pleasure. 

After  a  short  lapse  of  time  he  perceived  that  the  old  lady 
and  her  daughter  were  playing  cards  with  the  old  gentleman. 
As  to  the  satellite,  faithful  to  his  function  as  a  shadow,  he 
stood  behind  his  friend's  chair  watching  his  game,  and  an- 
swering the  player's  mute  inquiries  by  little  approving  nods, 
repeating  the  questioning  gestures  of  the  other  countenance. 

"Du  Halga,  I  always  lose,"  said  the  gentleman. 

"You  discard  badly,"  replied  the  Baronne  de  Rouville. 

"For  three  months  now  I  have  never  won  a  single  game," 
said  he. 

' '  Have  you  the  aces  ? ' '  asked  the  old  lady. 

"Yes,  one  more  to  mark,"  said  he. 


168  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Shall  I  come  and  advise  you?"  asked  Adelaide. 

"No,  no.  Stay  where  I  can  see  you.  By  Gad,  it  would 
be  losing  too  much  not  to  have  you  to  look  at!" 

At  last  the  game  was  over.  The  gentleman  pulled  out 
his  purse,  and,  throwing  two  Louis  d'or  on  the  table,  not 
without  temper — 

"Forty  francs,"  he  exclaimed,  "the  exact  sum. — Deuce 
take  it!  it  is  eleven  o'clock." 

"It  is  eleven  o'clock,"  repeated  the  silent  figure,  looking 
at  the  painter. 

The  young  man,  hearing  these  words  rather  more  dis- 
tinctly than  all  the  others,  thought  it  time  to  retire.  Com- 
ing back  to  the  world  of  ordinary  ideas,  he  found  a  few 
commonplace  remarks  to  make,  took  leave  of  the  Baroness, 
her  daughter,  and  the  two  strangers,  and  went  away,  wholly 
possessed  by  the  first  raptures  of  true  love,  without  attempt- 
ing to  analyze  the  little  incidents  of  the  evening. 

On  the  morrow  the  young  painter  felt  the  most  ardent  de- 
sire to  see  Adelaide  once  more.  If  he  had  followed  the  call 
of  his  passion,  he  would  have  gone  to  his  neighbors'  door  at 
six  in  the  morning,  when  he  went  to  his  studio.  However, 
he  still  was  reasonable  enough  to  wait  till  the  afternoon.  But 
as  soon  as  he  thought  he  could  present  himself  to  Madame 
de  Eouville,  he  went  downstairs,  rang,  blushing  like  a  girl, 
shyly  asked  Mademoiselle  Leseigneur,  who  came  to  let  him 
in,  to  let  him  have  the  portrait  of  the  Baron. 

"But  come  in,"  said  Adelaide,  who  had  no  doubt  heard 
him  come  down  from  the  studio. 

The  painter  followed,  bashful  and  out  of  countenance,  not 
knowing  what  to  say,  happiness  had  so  dulled  his  wit.  To 
see  Adelaide,  to  hear  the  rustle  of  her  skirt,  after  longing 
for  a  whole  morning  to  be  near  her,  after  starting  up  a  hun- 
dred times — "I  will  go  down  now" — and  not  to  have  gone; 
this  was  to  him  life  so  rich  that  such  sensations,  too  greatly 
prolonged,  would  have  worn  out  his  spirit.  The  heart  has 
the  singular  power  of  giving  extraordinary  value  to  mere 
nothings.  What  joy  it  is  to  a  traveller  to  treasure  a  blade 


THE   PURSE  169 

of  grass,  an  unfamiliar  leaf,  if  he  has  risked  his  life  to  pluck 
it!  It  is  the  same  with  the  trifles  of  love. 

The  old  lady  was  not  in  the  drawing-room.  When  the 
young  girl  found  herself  there,  alone  with  the  painter,  she 
brought  a  chair  to  stand  on,  to  take  down  the  picture;  but 
perceiving  that  she  could  not  unhook  it  without  setting  her 
foot  on  the  chest  of  drawers,  she  turned  to  Hippolyte,  and 
said  with  a  blush:  "I  am  not  tall  enough.  Will  you  get  it 
down?" 

A  feeling  of  modesty,  betrayed  in  the  expression  of  her 
face  and  the  tones  of  her  voice,  was  the  real  motive  of  her 
request;  and  the  young  man,  understanding  this,  gave 
her  one  of  those  glances  of  intelligence  which  are  the 
sweetest  language  of  love.  Seeing  that  the  painter  had 
read  her  soul,  Adelaide  cast  down  her  eyes  with  the  in- 
stinct of  reserve  which  is  the  secret  of  a  maiden's  heart. 
Hippolyte,  finding  nothing  to  say,  and  feeling  almost  timid, 
took  down  the  picture,  examined  it  gravely,  carrying  it  to 
the  light  at  the  window,  and  then  went  away,  without  say- 
ing a  word  to  Mademoiselle  Leseigneur  but,  "I  will  return 
it  soon." 

During  this  brief  moment  they  both  went  through  one  of 
those  storms  of  agitation  of  which  the  effects  in  the  soul  may 
be  compared  to  those  of  a  stone  flung  into  a  deep  lake.  The 
most  delightful  waves  of  thought  rise  and  follow  each  other, 
indescribable,  repeated,  and  aimless,  tossing  the  heart  like 
the  circular  ripples,  which  for  a  long  time  fret  the- waters, 
starting  from  the  point  where  the  stone  fell. 

Hippolyte  returned  to  the  studio  bearing  the  portrait. 
His  easel  was  ready  with  a  fresh  canvas,  and  his  palette  set, 
his  brushes  cleaned,  the  spot  and  the  light  carefully  chosen. 
And  till  the  dinner  hour  he  worked  at  the  painting  with  the 
ardor  artists  throw  into  their  whims.  He  went  again  that 
evening  to  the  Baronne  de  Eouville's,  and  remained  from 
nine  till  eleven.  Excepting  the  different  subjects  of  con- 
versation, this  evening  was  exactly  like  the  last.  The  two 
old  men  arrived  at  the  same  hour,  the  same  game  of  piquet 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC— 8. 


170  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

was  played,  the  same  speeches  made  by  the  players,  the  sum 
lost  by  Adelaide's  friend  was  not  less  considerable  than  on 
the  previous  evening;  only  Hippolyte,  a  little  bolder,  ven- 
tured to  chat  with  the  young  girl. 

A  week  passed  thus,  and  in  the  course  of  it  the  painter's 
feelings  and  Adelaide's  underwent  the  slow  and  delightful 
transformations  which  bring  two  souls  to  a  perfect  under- 
standing. Every  day  the  look  with  which  the  girl  welcomed 
her  friend  grew  more  intimate,  more  confiding,  gayer,  and 
more  open;  her  voice  and  manner  became  more  eager  and 
more  familiar.  They  laughed  and  talked  together,  telling 
each  other  their  thoughts,  speaking  of  themselves  with  the 
simplicity  of  two  children  who  have  made  friends  in  a  day, 
as  much  as  if  they  had  met  constantly  for  three  years.  Schin- 
ner  wished  to  be  taught  piquet.  Being  ignorant  and  a  novice, 
he,  of  course,  made  blunder  after  blunder,  and,  like  the  old 
man,  he  lost  almost  every  game.  Without  having  spoken  a 
word  of  love  the  lovers  knew  that  they  were  all  in  all  to  one 
another.  Hippolyte  enjoyed  exerting  his  power  over  his  gen- 
tle little  friend,  and  many  concessions  were  made  to  him  by 
Adelaide,  who,  timid  and  devoted  to  him,  was  quite  deceived 
by  the  assumed  fits  of  temper,  such  as  the  least  skilled  lover 
and  the  most  guileless  girl  can  affect;  and  which  they  con- 
stantly play  off,  as  spoiled  children  abuse  the  power  they 
owe  to  their  mother's  affection.  Thus  all  familiarity  be- 
tween the  girl  and  the  old  Count  was  soon  put  a  stop  to. 
She  understood  the  painter's  melancholy,  and  the  thoughts 
hidden  in  the  furrows  on  his  brow,  from  the  abrupt  tone  of 
the  few  words  he  spoke  when  the  old  man  unceremoniously 
kissed  Adelaide's  hands  or  throat. 

Mademoiselle  Leseigneur,  on  her  part,  soon  expected  her 
lover  to  give  her  a  short  account  of  all  his  actions;  she  was 
so  unhappy,  so  restless  when  Hippolyte  did  not  come,  she 
scolded  him  so  effectually  for  his  absence,  that  the  painter 
had  to  give  up  seeing  his  other  friends,  and  now  went  no- 
where. Adelaide  allowed  the  natural  jealousy  of  women  to 
be  perceived  when  she  heard  that  sometimes  at  eleven  o'clock, 


THE   PURSE  171 

on  quitting  the  house,  the  painter  still  had  visits  to  pay,  and 
was  to  be  seen  in  the  most  brilliant  drawing-rooms  of  Paris. 
This  mode  of  life,  she  assured  him,  was  bad  for  his  health; 
then,  with  the  intense  conviction  to  which  the  accent,  the 
emphasis,  and  the  look  of  one  we  love  lend  so  much  weight, 
she  asserted  that  a  man  who  was  obliged  to  expend  his  time 
and  the  charms  of  his  wit  on  several  women  at  once  could 
not  be  the  object  of  any  very  warm  affection.  Thus  the 
painter  was  led,  as  much  by  the  tyranny  of  his  passion  as 
by  the  exactions  of  a  girl  in  love,  to  live  exclusively  in  the 
little  apartment  where  everything  attracted  him. 

And  never  was  there  a  purer  or  more  ardent  love.  On 
both  sides  the  same  trustfulness,  the  same  delicacy,  gave 
their  passion  increase  without  the  aid  of  those  sacrifices  by 
which  many  persons  try  to  prove  their  affection.  Between 
these  two  there  was  such  a  constant  interchange  of  sweet 
emotion  that  they  knew  not  which  gave  or  received  the 
most. 

A  spontaneous  affinity  made  the  union  of  their  souls  a 
close  one.  The  progress  of  this  true  feeling  was  so  rapid 
that  two  months  after  the  accident  to  which  the  painter  owed 
the  happiness  of  knowing  Adelaide,  their  lives  were  one  life. 
From  early  morning  the  young  girl,  hearing  footsteps  over- 
head, could  say  to  herself,  "He  is  there."  "When  Hippolyte 
went  home  to  his  mother  at  the  dinner  hour  he  never  failed 
to  look  in  on  his  neighbors,  and  in  the  evening  he  flew  there 
at  the  accustomed  hour  with  a  lover's  punctuality.  Thus 
the  most  tyrannical  woman  or  the  most  ambitious  in  the  mat- 
ter of  love  could  not  have  found  the  smallest  fault  with  the 
young  painter.  And  Adelaide  tasted  of  unmixed  and  un- 
bounded happiness  as  she  saw  the  fullest  realization  of  the 
ideal  of  which,  at  her  age,  it  is  so  natural  to  dream. 

The  old  gentleman  now  came  more  rarely;  Hippolyte,  who 
had  been  jealous,  had  taken  his  place  at  the  green  table,  and 
shared  his  constant  ill-luck  at  cards.  And  sometimes,  in  the 
midst  of  his  happiness,  as  he  considered  Madame  de  Eou- 
ville's  disastrous  position — for  he  had  had  more  than  one 


172  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

proof  of  her  extreme  poverty — an  importunate  thought 
would  haunt  him.  Several  times  he  had  said  to  himself  as 
he  went  home,  "Strange!  twenty  francs  every  evening?" 
and  he  dared  not  confess  to  himself  his  odious  suspicions. 

He  spent  two  months  over  the  portrait,  and  when  it  was 
finished,  varnished,  and  framed,  he  looked  upon  it  as  one  of 
his  best  works.  Madame  la  Baronne  de  Rouville  had  never 
spoken  of  it  again.  Was  this  from  indifference  or  pride? 
The  painter  would  not  allow  himself  to  account  for  this  si- 
lence. He  joyfully  plotted  with  Adelaide  to  hang  the  pic- 
ture in  its  place  when  Madame  de  Rouville  should  be  out. 
So  one  day,  during  the  walk  her  mother  usually  took  in  the 
Tuileries,  Adelaide  for  the  first  time  went  up  to  Hippolyte's 
studio,  on  the  pretext  of  seeing  the  portrait  in  the  good  light 
in  which  it  had  been  painted.  She  stood  speechless  and  mo- 
tionless, but  in  ecstatic  contemplation,  in  which  all  a  woman's 
feelings  were  merged.  For  are  they  not  all  comprehended 
in  boundless  admiration  for  the  man  she  loves?  When  the 
painter,  uneasy  at  her  silence,  leaned  forward  to  look  at  her, 
she  held  out  her  hand,  unable  to  speak  a  word,  but  two  tears 
fell  from  her  eyes.  Hippolyte  took  her  hand,  and  covered 
it  with  kisses;  for  a  minute  they  looked  at  each  other  in  si- 
lence, both  longing  to  confess  their  love,  and  not  daring. 
The  painter  kept  her  hand  in  his,  and  the  same  glow,  the 
same  throb,  told  them  that  their  hearts  were  both  beating 
wildly.  The  young  girl,  too  greatly  agitated,  gently  drew 
away  from  Hippolyte,  and  said,  with  a  look  of  the  utmost 
simplicity:  "You  will  make  my  mother  very  happy." 

"What!  only  your  mother?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I  am  too  happy." 

The  p  inter  bent  his  head  and  remained  silent,  frightened 
at  the  vehemence  of  the  feelings  which  her  tones  stirred  in 
his  heart,  Then,  both  understanding  the  perils  of  the  situ- 
ation, they  went  downstairs  and  hung  up  the  picture  in  its 
place.  Hippolyte  dined  for  the  first  time  with  the  Baroness, 
who,  greatly  overcome,  and  drowned  in  tears,  must  needs 
embrace  him. 


THE  PURSE  173 

In  the  evening  the  old  e'migre',  the  Baron  de  Rouville's 
old  comrade,  paid  the  ladies  a  visit  to  announce  that  he  had 
just  been  promoted  to  the  rank  of  vice-admiral.  His  voy- 
ages by  land  over  Germany  and  Russia  had  been  counted  as 
naval  campaigns.  On  seeing  the  portrait  he  cordially  shook 
the  painter's  hand,  and  exclaimed,  "By  Gad!  though  my  old 
hulk  does  not  deserve  to  be  perpetuated ,  I  would  gladly  give 
five  hundred  pistoles  to  see  myself  as  like  as  that  is  to  my 
dear  old  Eouville. ' ' 

At  this  hint  the  Baroness  looked  at  her  young  friend  and 
smiled,  while  her  face  lighted  up  with  an  expression  of  sud- 
den gratitude.  Hippolyte  suspected  that  'the  old  admiral 
wished  to  oiler  him  the  price  of  both  portraits  while  paying 
for  his  own.  His  pride  as  an  artist,  no  less  than  his  jealousy 
perhaps,  took  offence  at  the  thought,  and  he  replied:  "Mon- 
sieur, if  I  were  a  portrait-painter  I  should  not  have  done 
this  one." 

The  admiral  bit  his  lip,  and  sat  down  to  cards. 

The  painter  remained  near  Adelaide,  who  proposed  a 
dozen  hands  of  piquet,  to  which  he  agreed.  As  he  played 
he  observed  in  Madame  de  Rouville  an  excitement  over  her 
game  which  surprised  him.  Never  before  had  the  old  Baron- 
ess manifested  so  ardent  a  desire  to  win,  or  so  keen  a  joy  in 
fingering  the  old  gentleman's  gold  pieces.  During  the  even- 
ing evil  suspicions  troubled  Hippolyte's  happiness,  and  filled 
him  with  distrust.  Could  it  be  that  Madame  de  Rouville 
lived  by  gambling?  Was  she  playing  at  this  moment  to 
pay  off  some  debt,  or  under  the  pressure  of  necessity  ?  Per- 
haps she  had  not  paid  her  rent.  That  old  man  seemed  shrewd 
enough  not  to  allow  his  money  to  be  taken  with  impunity. 
What  interest  attracted  him  to  this  poverty-stricken  house, 
he  who  was  rich  ?  Why,  when  he  had  formerly  been  so 
familiar  with  Adelaide,  had  he  given  up  the  rights  he  had 
acquired,  and  which  were  perhaps  his  due? 

These  involuntary  reflections  prompted  him  to  watch  the 
old  man  and  the  Baroness,  whose  meaning  looks  and  certain 
sidelong  glances  cast  at  Adelaide  displeased  him.  "Am  I 


174  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

being  duped?"  was  Hippolyte's  last  idea — horrible,  scath- 
ing, for  he  believed  it  just  enough  to  be  tortured  by  it.  .  He 
determined  to  stay  after  the  departure  of  the  two  old  men, 
to  confirm  or  to  dissipate  his  suspicions.  He  drew  out  his 
purse  to  pay  Adelaide;  but,  carried  away  by  his  poignant 
thoughts,  he  laid  it  on  the  table,  falling  into  a  re  very  of 
brief  duration;  then,  ashamed  of  his  silence,  he  rose,  an- 
swered some  commonplace  question  from  Madame  de  Rou- 
ville,  and  went  close  up  to  her  to  examine  the  withered 
features  while  he  was  talking  to  her. 

He  went  away,  racked  by  a  thousand  doubts.  He  had 
gone  down  but  "a  few  steps  when  he  turned  back  to  fetch 
the  forgotten  purse. 

"I  left  my  purse  here!"  he  said  to  the  young  girl. 

"No,"  she  said,  reddening. 

"I  thought  it  was  there,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  card-table. 
Not  finding  it,  in  his  shame  for  Adelaide  and  the  Baroness, 
he  looked  at  them  with  a  blank  amazement  that  made  them 
laugh,  turned  pale,  felt  his  waistcoat,  and  said,  "I  must  have 
made  a  mistake.  I  have  it  somewhere  no  doubt. ' ' 

In  one  end  of  the  purse  there  were  fifteen  Louis  d'or,  and 
in  the  other  some  small  change.  The  theft  was  so  flagrant, 
and  denied  with  such  effrontery,  that  Hippolyte  no  longer 
felt  a  doubt  as  to  his  neighbors'  morals.  He  stood  still  on 
the  stairs,  and  got  down  with  some  difficulty;  his  knees 
shook,  he  felt  dizzy,  he  was  in  a  cold  sweat,  he  shivered, 
and  found  himself  unable  to  walk,  struggling,  as  he  was, 
with  the  agonizing  shock  caused  by  the  destruction  of  all 
his  hopes.  And  at  this  moment  he  found  lurking  in  his 
memory  a  number  of  observations,  trifling  in  themselves, 
but  which  corroborated  his  frightful  suspicions,  and  which, 
by  proving  the  certainty  of  this  last  incident,  opened  his 
eyes  as  to  the  character  and  life  of  these  two  women. 

Had  they  really  waited  till  the  portrait  was  given  them 
before  robbing  him  of  his  purse?  In  such  a  combination 
the  theft  was  even  more  odious.  The  painter  recollected 
that  for  the  last  two  or  three  evenings  Adelaide,  while  seem- 


THE  PURSE  175 

ing  to  examine  with,  a  girl's  curiosity  the  particular  stitch 
of  the  worn  silk  netting,  was  probably  counting  the  coins  in 
the  purse,  while  making  some  light  jests,  quite  innocent 
in  appearance,  but  no  doubt  with  the  object  of  watching 
for  a  moment  when  the  sum  was  worth  stealing. 

"The  old  admiral  has  perhaps  good  reasons  for  not  marry- 
ing Adelaide,  and  so  the  Baroness  has  tried — " 

But  at  this  hypothesis  he  checked  himself,  not  finishing 
his  thought,  which  was  contradicted  by  a  very  just  reflec- 
tion, "If  the  Baroness  hopes  to  get  me  to  marry  her  daugh- 
ter," thought  he,  "they  would  not  have  robbed  me." 

Then,  clinging  to  his  illusions,  to  the  love  that  already 
had  taken  such  deep  root,  he  tried  to  find  a  justification  in 
some  accident.  "The  purse  must  have  fallen  on  the  floor," 
said  he  to  himself,  "or  I  left  it  lying  on  my  chair.  Or  per- 
haps I  have  it  about  me — I  am  so  absent-minded!"  He 
searched  himself  with  hurried  movements,  but  did  not  find 
the  ill-starred  purse.  His  memory  cruelly  retraced  the  fatal 
truth,  minute  by  minute.  He  distinctly  saw  the  purse  lying 
on  the  green  cloth;  but  then,  doubtful  no  longer,  he  excused 
Adelaide,  telling  himself  that  persons  in  misfortune  should 
not  be  so  hastily  condemned.  There  was,  of  course,  some 
secret  behind  this  apparently  degrading  action.  He  would 
not  admit  that  that  proud  and  noble  face  was  a  lie. 

At  the  same  time  the  wretched  rooms  rose  before  him, 
denuded  of  the  poetry  of  love  which  beautifies  everything; 
he  saw  them  dirty  and  faded,  regarding  them  as  emblematic 
of  an  inner  life  devoid  of  honor,  idle  and  vicious.  Are  not 
our  feelings  written,  as  it  were,  on  the  things  about  us  ? 

Next  morning  he  rose,  not  having  slept.  The  heartache, 
that  terrible  malady  of  the  soul,  had  made  rapid  inroads. 
To  lose  the  bliss  we  dreamed  of,  to  renounce  our  whole 
future,  is  a  keener  pang  than  that  caused  by  the  loss  of 
known  happiness,  however  complete  it  may  have  been;  for 
is  not  Hope  better  than  Memory?  The  thoughts  into  which 
our  spirit  is  suddenly  plunged  are  like  a  shoreless  sea,  in 
which  we  may  swim  for  a  moment,  but  where  our  love  is 


176  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

doomed  to  drown  and  die.  And  it  is  a  frightful  death.  Are 
not  our  feelings  the  most  glorious  part  of  our  life  ?  It  is  this 
partial  death  which,  in  certain  delicate  or  powerful  natures, 
leads  to  the  terrible  ruin  produced  by  disenchantment,  by 
hopes  and  passions  betrayed.  Thus  it  was  with  the  young 
painter.  He  went  out  at  a  very  early  hour  to  walk  under 
the  fresh  shade  of  the  Tuileries,  absorbed  in  his  thoughts, 
forgetting  everything  in  the  world. 

There  by  chance  he  met  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends, 
a  schoolfellow  and  studio-mate,  with  whom  he  had  lived  on 
better  terms  than  with  a  brother. 

"Why,  Hippolyte,  what  ails  you?"  asked  Frangois 
Souchet,  the  young  sculptor  who  had  just  won  the  first 
prize,  and  was  soon  to  set  out  for  Italy. 

"I  am  most  unhappy,"  replied  Hippolyte  gravely. 

"Nothing  but  a  love  affair  can  cause  you  grief.  Money, 
glory,  respect — you  lack  nothing." 

Insensibly  the  painter  was  led  into  confidences,  and  con- 
fessed his  love.  The  moment  he  mentioned  the  Eue  de 
Suresnes,  and  a  young  girl  living  on  the  fourth  floor,  "Stop, 
stop,"  cried  Souchet  lightly.  "A  little  girl  I  see  every 
morning  at  the  Church  of  the  Assumption,  and  with  whom 
I  have  a  flirtation.  But,  my  dear  fellow,  we  all  know  her. 
The  mother  is  a  Baroness.  Do  you  really  believe  in  a 
Baroness  living  up  four  flights  of  stairs?  Brrr!  Why, 
you  are  a  relic  of  'the  golden  age!  We  see  the  old  mother 
here,  in  this  avenue,  every  day;  why,  her  face,  her  appear- 
ance, tell  everything.  What,  have  you  not  known  her  for 
what  she  is  by  the  way  she  holds  her  bag  ? ' ' 

The  two  friends  walked  up  and  down  for  some  time,  and 
several  young  men  who  knew  Souchet  or  Schinner  joined 
them.  The  painter's  adventure,  which  the  sculptor  regarded 
as  unimportant,  was  repeated  by  him. 

"So  he,  too,  has  seen  that  young  lady!"  said  Souchet. 

And  then  there  were  comments,  laughter,  innocent  mock- 
ery, full  of  the  liveliness  familiar  to  artists,  but  which  pained 
Hippolyte  frightfully.  A  certain  native  reticence  made  him 


THE   PURSE  177 

uncomfortable  as  he  saw  his  heart's  secret  so  carelessly  han- 
dled, his  passion  rent,  torn  to  tatters,  a  young  and  unknown 
girl,  whose  life  seemed  to  be  so  modest,  the  victim  of  con- 
demnation, right  or  wrong,  but  pronounced  with  such  reck- 
less indifference.  He  pretended  to  be  moved  by  a  spirit  of 
contradiction,  asking  each  for  proofs  of  his  assertions,  and 
their  jests  began  again. 

"But,  my  dear  boy,  have  you  seen  the  Baroness's  shawl?" 
asked  Souchet. 

"Have  you  ever  followed  the  girl  when  she  patters  off  to 
church  in  the  morning?"  said  Joseph  Bridau,  a  young  dauber 
in  Gros'  studio. 

"Oh,  the  mother  has  among  other  virtues  a  certain  gray 
gown,  which  I  regard  as  typical,"  said  Bixiou,  the  carica- 
turist. 

"Listen,  Hippolyte, "  the  sculptor  went  on.  "Come  here 
at  about  four  o'clock,  and  just  study  the  walk  of  both  mother 
and  daughter.  If  after  that  you  still  have  doubts !  well,  no 
one  can  ever  make  anything  of  you ;  you  would  be  capable 
of  marrying  your  porter's  daughter." 

Torn  by  the  most  conflicting  feelings,  the  painter  parted 
from  his  friends.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Adelaide  and  her 
mother  must  be  superior  to  these  accusations,  and  at  the 
bottom  of  his  heart  he  was  filled  with  remorse  for  having 
suspected  the  purity  of  this  beautiful  and  simple  girl.  He 
went  to  his  studio,  passing  the  door  of  the  rooms  where  Ade*- 
laide  was,  and  conscious  of  a  pain  at  his  heart  which  no  man 
can  misapprehend.  He  loved  Mademoiselle  de  Eouville  so 
passionately  that,  in  spite  of  the  theft  of  the  purse,  he  still 
worshipped  her.  His  love  was  that  of  the  Chevalier  des 
Grieux  admiring  his  mistress,  and  holding  her  as  pure,  even 
on  the  cart  which  carries  such  lost  creatures  to  prison.  "Why 
should  not  my  love  keep  her  the  purest  of  women  ?  Why 
abandon  her  to  evil  and  to  vice  without  holding  out  a  reg- 
cuing  hand  to  her?" 

The  idea  of  this  mission  pleased  him.  Love  makes  a 
gain  of  everything.  Nothing  tempts  a  young  man  moro 


178  BALZACTS   WORKS 

than  to  play  the  part  of  a  good  genius  to  a  woman.  There 
is  something  inexplicably  romantic  in  such  an  enterprise 
which  appeals  to  a  highly  strung  soul.  Is  it  not  the  ut- 
most stretch  of  devotion  under  the  loftiest  and  most  en- 
gaging aspect?  Is  there  not  something  grand  in  the 
thought  that  we  love  enough  still  to  love  on  when  the 
love  of  others  dwindles  and  dies? 

Hippolyte  sat  down  in  his  studio,  gazed  at  his  picture 
without  doing  anything  to  it,  seeing  the  figures  through 
tears  that  swelled  in  his  eyes,  holding  his  brush  in  his 
hand,  going  up  to  the  canvas  as  if  to  soften  down  an 
effect,  but  not  touching  it.  Night  fell,  and  he  was  still 
in  this  attitude.  Eoused  from  his  moodiness  by  the  dark- 
ness, he  went  downstairs,  met  the  old  admiral  on  the  way, 
looked  darkly  at  him  as  he  bowed,  and  fled. 

He  had  intended  going  in  to  see  the  ladies,  but  the  sight 
of  Adelaide's  protector  froze  his  heart  and  dispelled  his  pur- 
pose. For  the  hundredth  time  he  wondered  what  interest 
could  bring  this  old  prodigal,  with  his  eighty  thousand 
francs  a  year,  to  this  fourth  story,  where  he  lost  about 
forty  francs  every  evening;  and  he  thought  he  could  guess 
what  it  was. 

The  next  and  following  days  Hippolyte  threw  himself 
into  his  work,  to  try  to  conquer  his  passion  by  the  swift 
rush  of  ideas  and  the  ardor  of  composition.  He  half  suc- 
ceeded. Study  consoled  him,  though  it  could  not  smother 
the  memories  of  so  many  tender  hours  spent  with  Adelaide. 

One  evening,  as  he  left  his  studio,  he  saw  the  door  of  the 
ladies'  rooms  half  open.  Somebody  was  standing  in  the  re- 
cess of  the  window,  and  the  position  of  the  door  and  the 
staircase  made  it  impossible  that  the  painter  should  pass 
without  seeing  Adelaide.  He  bowed  coldly,  with  a  glance 
of  supreme  indifference ;  but  judging  of  the  girl's  suffering 
by  his  own,  he  felt  an  inward  shudder  as  he  reflected  on 
the  bitterness  which  that  look  and  that  coldness  must  pro- 
duce in  a  loving  heart.  To  crown  the  most  delightful  feast 
which  ever  brought  joy  to  two  pure  souls,  by  eight  days  of 


THE  PURSE  179 

disdain,  of  the  deepest  and  most  utter  contempt! — A  fright- 
ful conclusion.  And  perhaps  the  purse  had  been  found, 
perhaps  Adelaide  had  looked  for  her  friend  every  evening. 

This  simple  and  natural  idea  filled  the  lover  with  fresh 
remorse;  he  asked  himself  whether  the  proofs  of  attachment 
given  him  by  the  young  girl,  the  delightful  talks,  full  of  the 
love  that  had  so  charmed  him,  did  not  deserve  at  least  an  in- 
quiry ;  were  not  worthy  of  some  justification  ?  Ashamed  of 
having  resisted  the  promptings  of  his  heart  for  a  whole 
week,  and  feeling  himself  almost  a  criminal  in  this  mental 
struggle,  he  called  the  same  evening  on  Madame  de  Bouville. 

All  his  suspicions,  all  his  evil  thoughts  vanished  at  the 
sight  of  the  young  girl,  who  had  grown  pale  and  thin. 

"Good  heavens!  what  is  the  matter?"  he  asked  her, 
after  greeting  the  Baroness. 

Adelaide  made  no  reply,  but  she  gave  him  a  look  of 
deep  melancholy,  a  sad,  dejected  look,  which  pained  him. 

"You  have,  no  doubt,  been  working  hard,"  said  the 
old  lady.  "You  are  altered.  We  are  the  cause  of  your 
seclusion.  That  portrait  had  delayed  some  pictures  essen- 
tial to  your  reputation." 

Hippolyte  was  glad  to  find  so  good  an  excuse  for  his 
rudeness. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  have  been  very  busy,  but  I  have 
been  suffering — " 

At  these  words  Adelaide  raised  her  head,  looked  at  her 
lover,  and  her  anxious  eyes  had  now  no  hint  of  reproach. 

"You  must  have  thought  us  quite  indifferent  to  any 
good  or  ill  that  may  befall  you?"  said  the  old  lady. 

"I  was  wrong,"  he  replied.  "Still,  there  are  forms  of 
pain  which  we  know  not  how  to  confide  to  any  one,  even 
to  a  friendship  of  older  date  than  that  with  which  you 
honor  me." 

"The  sincerity  and  strength  of  friendship  are  not  to  be 
measured  by  time.  I  have  seen  old  friends  who  had  not  a 
tear  to  bestow  on  misfortune,"  said  the  Baroness,  nodding 
sadly. 


180  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

"But  you — what  ails  you?"  the  youug  man  asked 
Adelaide. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  replied  the  Baroness;  "Adelaide  has 
sat  up  late  for  some  nights  to  finish  some  little  piece  of 
woman's  work,  and  would  not  listen  to  me  when  I  told 
her  that  a  day  more  or  less  did  not  matter — ' ' 

Hippolyte  was  not  listening.  As  he  looked  at  these 
two  noble,  calm  faces,  he  blushed  for  his  suspicions,  and 
ascribed  the  loss  of  his  purse  to  some  unknown  accident. 

This  was  a  delicious  evening  to  him,  and  perhaps  to  her 
too.  There  are  some  secrets  which  young  souls  understand 
so  well.  Adelaide  could  read  Hippolyte 's  thoughts.  Though 
he  could  not  confess  his  misdeeds,  the  painter  knew  them,  and 
he  had  come  back  to  his  mistress  more  in  love,  and  more  af- 
fectionate, trying  thus  to  purchase  her  tacit  forgiveness. 
Adelaide  was  enjoying  such  perfect,  such  sweet  happi- 
ness, that  she  did  not  think  she  had  paid  too  dear  for  it 
with  all  the  grief  that  had  so  cruelly  crushed  her  soul. 
And  yet,  this  true  concord  of  hearts,  this  understanding 
so  full  of  magic  charm,  was  disturbed  by  a  little  speech  of 
Madame  de  Kouville's. 

"Let  us  have  our  little  game,"  she  said,  "for  my  old 
friend  Kergarouet  will  not  let  me  off." 

These  words  revived  all  the  young  painter's  fears;  he 
colored  as  he  looked  at  Adelaide's  mother,  but  he  saw 
nothing  in  her  countenance  but  the  expression  of  the 
frankest  good -nature;  no  double  •  meaning  marred  its 
charm;  its  keenness  was  not  perfidious,  its  humor  seemed 
kindly,  and  no  trace  of  remorse  disturbed  its  equanimity. 

He  sat  down  to  the  card-table.  Adelaide  took  side 
with  the  painter,  saying  that  he  did  not  know  piquet,  and 
needed  a  partner. 

All  through  the  game  Madame  de  Rouville  and  her 
daughter  exchanged  looks  of  intelligence,  which  alarmed 
Hippolyte  all  the  more  because  he  was  winning;  but  at 
last  a  final  hand  left  the  lovers  in  the  old  lady's  debt. 

To  feel  for  some  money  in  his  pocket  the  painter  took 


THE  PURSE  181 

his  hands  off  the  table,  and  he  then  saw  before  him  a  purse 
which  Adelaide  had  slipped  in  front  of  him  without  his 
noticing  it;  the  poor  child  had  the  old  one  in  her  hand, 
and,  to  keep  her  countenance,  was  looking  into  it  for  the 
money  to  pay  her  mother.  The  blood  rushed  to  Hippo- 
lyte's  heart  with  such  force  that  he  was  near  fainting. 

The  new  purse,  substituted  for  his  own,  and  which 
contained  his  fifteen  gold  louis,  was  worked  with  gilt 
beads.  The  rings  and  tassels  bore  witness  to  Adelaide's 
good  taste,  and  she  had  no  doubt  spent  all  her  little  hoard 
in  ornamenting  this  pretty  piece  of  work.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  say  with  greater  delicacy  that  the  painter's  gift 
could  only  be  repaid  by  some  proof  of  affection.  Hippo- 
lyte,  overcome  with  happiness,  turned  to  look  at  Adelaide 
and  her  mother,  and  saw  that  they  were,  tremulous  with 
pleasure  and  delight  at  their  little  trick.  He  felt  himself 
mean,  sordid,  a  fool;  he  longed  to  punish  himself,  to  rend 
his  heart.  A  few  tears  rose  to  his  eyes,  by  an  irresistible 
impulse  he  sprang  up,  clasped  Adelaide  in  his  arms, 
pressed  her  to  his  heart,  and  stole  a  kiss;  then  with  the 
simple  heartiness  of  an  artist,  "I  ask  her  for  my  wife!"  he 
exclaimed,  looking  at  the  Baroness. 

Adelaide  looked  at  him  with  half-wrathful  eyes,  and 
Madame  de  Rouville,  somewhat  astonished,  was  consider' 
ing  her  reply,  when  the  scene  was  interrupted  by  a  ring  at 
the  bell.  The  old  vice-admiral  came  in,  followed  by  his 
shadow,  and  Madame  Schinner.  Having  guessed  the  cause 
of  the  grief  her  son  vainly  endeavored  to  conceal,  Hippo- 
lyte's  mother  had  made  inquiries  among  her  friends  con- 
cerning Adelaide.  Very  justly  alarmed  by  the  calumnies 
which  weighed  on  the  young  girl,  unknown  to  the  Comte 
de  Kergarouet,  whose  name  she  learned  from  the  porter's 
wife,  she  went  to  report  them  to  the  vice-admiral;  and  he, 
in  his  rage,  declared  "he  would  crop  all  the  scoundrels'  ears 
for  them." 

Then,  prompted  by  his  wrath,  he  went  on  to  explain  to 
Madame  Schinner  the  secret  of  his  losing  intentionally  at 


182  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

cards,  because  the  Baronne's  pride  left  him  none  but  these 
ingenious  means  of  assisting  her. 

When  Madame  Schinner  had  paid  her  respects  to  Ma- 
dame de  Kouville,  the  Baroness  looked  at  the  Comte  de 
Kergarouet,  at  the  Chevalier  du  Halga — the  friend  of  the 
departed  Comtesse  de  Kergarouet — at  Hippolyte  and  Ade- 
laide, and  said,  with  the  grace  that  comes  from  the  heart, 
"  So  we  are  a  family  party  this  evening. ' ' 

PARIS,  May,  1832. 


THE   VENDETTA 

Dedicated  to  Puttinati,  Sculptor  at  Milan 

/N  THE  YEAR  1800,  toward  the  end  of  October,  a 
stranger,  having  with  him  a  woman  and  a  little  girl, 
made  his  appearance  in  front  of  the  Tuileries  Palace, 
and  stood  for  some  little  time  close  to  the  ruins  of  a  house, 
then  recently  pulled  down,  on  the  spot  where  the  wing  is 
still  unfinished  which  was  intended  to  join  Catherine  de 
Medici's  Palace  to  the  Louvre  built  by  the  Valois.  There 
he  stood,  his  arms  folded,  his  head  bent,  raising  it  now  and 
again  to  look  at  the  Consul's  Palace,  or  at  his  wife,  who  sat 
on  a  stone  by  his  side. 

Though  the  stranger  seemed  to  think  only  of  the  little 
girl  of  nine  or  ten,  whose  black  hair  was  a  plaything  in  his 
fingers,  the  woman  lost  none  of  the  glances  shot  at  her  by 
her  companion.  A  common  feeling,  other  than  love,  united 
these  two  beings,  and  a  common  thought  animated  their 
thoughts  and  their  actions.  Misery  is  perhaps  the  strong- 
est of  all  bonds. 

The  man  had  one  of  those  broad,  solemn-looking  heads, 
with  a  mass  of  hair,  of  which  so  many  examples  have  been 
perpetuated  by  the  Carracci.  Among  the  thick  black  locks 
were  many  white  hairs.  His  features,  though  fine  and  proud, 
had  a  set  hardness  which  spoiled  them.  In  spite  of  his  pow- 
erful and  upright  frame,  he  seemed  to  be  more  than  sixty 
years  of  age.  His  clothes,  which  were  dilapidated,  betrayed 
his  foreign  origin. 

The  woman's  face,  formerly  handsome,  but  now  faded, 
bore  a  stamp  of  deep  melancholy,  though,  when  her  hus- 

(183) 


184  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

band  looked  at  her,  she  forced  herself  to  smile,  and  affected 
a  calm  expression.  The  little  girl  was  standing,  in  spite  of 
the  fatigue  that  was  written  on  her  small  sunburned  face. 
She  had  Italian  features,  large  black  eyes  under  well-arched 
eyebrows,  a  native  dignity  and  genuine  grace.  More  than 
one  passer-by  was  touched  by  the  mere  sight  of  this  group, 
for  the  persons  composing  it  made  no  effort  to  disguise  a 
despair  evidently  as  deep  as  the  expression  of  it  was  sim- 
ple; but  the  spring  of  the  transient  kindliness  which  dis- 
tinguishes the  Parisian  is  quickly  dried  up.  As  soon  as 
the  stranger  perceived  that  he  was  the  object  of  some  idler's 
attention,  he  stared  at  him  so  fiercely  that  the  most  intrepid 
lounger  hastened  his  step,  as  though  he  had  trodden  on  a 
viper. 

After  remaining  there  a  long  time  undecided,  the  tall  man 
suddenly  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow,  driving  away,  so 
to  speak,  the  thoughts  that  had  furrowed  it  with  wrinkles, 
and  made  up  his  mind  no  doubt  to  some  desperate  deter- 
mination. Casting  a  piercing  look  at  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ter, he  drew  out  of  his  jerkin  a  long  dagger,  held  it  out  to 
the  woman,  and  said  in  Italian,  "I  am  going  to  see  whether 
the  Bonapartes  remember  us." 

He  walked  on,  with  a  slow  confident  step,  toward  the 
entrance  to  the  palace,  where,  of  course,  he  was  checked  by 
a  soldier  on  guard,  with  whom  there  could  be  no  long  dis- 
cussion. Seeing  that  the  stranger  was  obstinate,  the  sentry 
pointed  his  bayonet  at  him  by  way  of  ultimatum.  As  chance 
would  have  it  at  this  moment,  a  squad  came  round  to  relieve 
guard,  and  the  corporal  very  civilly  informed  the  stranger 
where  he  might  find  the  captain  of  the  guard. 

"Let  Bonaparte  know  that  Bartolomeo  di  Piombo  wants 
to  see  him,"  said  the  Italian  to  the  officer. 

In  vain  did  the  Captain  explain  to  Bartolomeo  that  it 
was  not  possible  to  see  the  First  Consul  without  having 
written  to  him  beforehand  to  request  an  audience.  The 
stranger  insisted  that  the  officer  should  go  to  inform  Bona- 
parte. The  Captain  urged  the  rules  of  his  duty,  and  for- 


THE    VENDETTA  185 

E&ally  refused  to  yield  to  the  demands  of  this  strange  peti- 
tioner. Bartolomeo  knit  his  brows,  looked  at  the  Captain 
with  a  terrible  scowl,  and  seemed  to  make  him  responsible 
for  all  the  disasters  his  refusal  might  occasion ;  then  he  re- 
mained silent,  his  arms  tightly  crossed  on  his  breast,  and 
took  his  stand  under  the  archway  which  connects  the  gar- 
den and  the  courtyard  of  the  Tuileries. 

People  who  are  thoroughly  bent  on  anything  are  almost 
always  well  served  by  chance.  At  the  moment  when  Bar- 
tolomeo sat  down  on  one  of  the  curbstones  near  the  en- 
trance to  the  palace,  a  carriage  drove  up,  and  out  of  it 
stepped  Lucien  Bonaparte,  at  that  time  Minister  of  the 
Interior. 

"Ah !  Loucien,  good  luck  for  me  to  have  met  you!"  cried 
the  stranger. 

These  words,  spoken  in  the  Corsican  dialect,  made  Lucien 
stop  at  the  instant  when  he  was  rushing  into  the  vestibule; 
he  looked  at  his  fellow-countryman,  and  recognized  him. 
At  the  first  word  that  Bartolomeo  said  in  his  ear,  he  took 
him  with  him.  Murat,  Lannes,  and  Kapp  were  in  the  First 
Consul's  Cabinet.  On  seeing  Lucien  come  in  with  so  strange 
a  figure  as  was  Piombo,  the  conversation  ceased.  Lucien 
took  his  brother's  hand  and  led  him  into  a  window  recess. 
After  exchanging  a  few  words,  the  First  Consul  raised  his 
hand  with  a  gesture,  which  Murat  and  Lannes  obeyed  by 
retiring.  Eapp  affected  not  to  have  seen  it,  and  remained. 
Then,  Bonaparte  having  sharply  called  him  to  order,  the 
aide-de-camp  went  out  with  a  sour  face.  The  First  Consul, 
who  heard  the  sound  of  Rapp's  steps  in  the  neighboring 
room,  hastily  followed  him,  and  saw  him  close  to  the  wall 
between  the  cabinet  and  the  anteroom. 

"You  refuse  to  understand  me?"  said  the  First  Consul. 
"I  wish  to  be  alone  with  my  countryman." 

"A  Corsican!"  retorted  the  aide-de-camp.  "I  distrust 
those  creatures  too  much  not  to — " 

The  First  Consul  could  not  help  smiling,  and  lightly 
pushed  his  faithful  officer  by  the  shoulders. 


186  BALZACTS    WORKS 

"Well,  and  what  are  you  doing  here,  my  poor  Bartolo- 
meo?"  said  the  First  Consul  to  Piombo. 

"I  have  come  to  ask  for  shelter  and  protection,  if  you 
are  a  true  Corsican, ' '  replied  Bartolomeo  in  a  rough  tone. 

"What  misfortune  has  driven  you  from  your  native  land? 
You  were  the  richest,  the  most — " 

"I  have  killed  all  the  Porta, "  replied  the  Corsican,  in  a 
hollow  voice,  with  a  frown. 

The  First  Consul  drew  back  a  step  or  two,  like  a  man 
astonished. 

' '  Are  you  going  to  betray  me  ? ' '  cried  Bartolomeo,  with 
a  gloomy  look  at  Bonaparte.  "Do  you  forget  that  there  are 
still  four  of  the  Piombo  in  Corsica?" 

Lucien  took  his  fellow-countryman  by  the  arm  and  shook 
him.  "Do  you  come  here  to  threaten  the  savior  of  France?" 
he  said  vehemently. 

Bonaparte  made  a  sign  to  Lucien,  who  was  silent.  Then. 
he  looked  at  Piombo,  and  said,  "And  why  did  you  kill  all 
the  Porta?" 

"We  had  made  friends,"  he  replied;  "the  Barbanti  had 
reconciled  us.  The  day  after  we  had  drunk  together  to 
drown  our  quarrel  I  left,  because  I  had  business  at  Bastia. 
They  stayed  at  my  place,  and  set  fire  to  my  vineyard  at 
Longone.  They  killed  my.  son  Gregorio;  my  daughter 
Ginevra  and  my  wife  escaped;  they  had  taken  the  Com- 
munion that  morning;  the  Virgin  protected  them.  When 
I  got  home  I  could  no  longer  see  my  house;  I  searched  for 
it  with  my  feet  in  the  ashes.  Suddenly  I  came  across  Gre- 
gorio's  body;  I  recognized  it  in  the  moonlight.  'Oh,  the 
Porta  have  played  this  trick!'  said  I  to  myself.  I  went  off 
at  once  into  the  scrub ;  I  got  together  a  few  men  to  whom  I 
had  done  some  service — do  you  hear,  Bonaparte? — and  we 
marched  down  on  the  Porta's  vineyard.  We  arrived  at  five 
in  the  morning,  and  by  seven  they  were  all  in  the  presence 
of  God.  Giacomo  declares  that  Elisa  Vanni  saved  a  child, 
little  Luigi;  but  I  tied  him  into  bed  with  my  own  hands  be- 
fore setting  the  house  on  fire.  Then  I  quitted  the  island 


THE    VENDETTA  187 

with  my  wife  and  daughter  without  being  able  to  make  sure 
whether  Luigi  Porta  were  still  alive." 

Bonaparte  looked  at  Bartolomeo  with  curiosity,  but  no 
astonishment. 

"How  many  were  they?"  asked  Lucien. 

' '  Seven, ' '  replied  Piombo.  ' '  They  persecuted  you  in  their 
day,"  he  added.  The  words  aroused  no  sign  of  hatred  in  the 
two  brothers.  "Ah!  you  are  no  longer  Corsicans!"  cried 
Bartolomeo,  with  a  sort  of  despair.  "Good- by.  Formerly 
I  protected  you,"  he  went  on  reproachfully.  "But  for  me 
your  mother  would  never  have  reached  Marseilles,"  he  said, 
turning  to  Bonaparte,  who  stood  thoughtful,  his  elbow  rest- 
ing on  the  chimney-piece. 

"I  cannot  in  conscience  take  you  under  my  wing,  Piom- 
bo," replied  Napoleon.  "I  am  the  head  of  a  great  nation; 
I  govern  the  Republic;  I  must  see  that  the  laws  are  carried 
out." 

"Ah  ha!"  said  Bartolomeo. 

"But  I  can  shut  my  eyes,"  Bonaparte  went  on.  "The 
tradition  of  the  Vendetta  will  hinder  the  reign  of  law  in 
Corsica  for  a  long  time  yet,"  he  added,  talking  to  himself. 
"But  it  must  be  stamped  out  at  any  cost." 

He  was  silent  for  a  minute,  and  Lucien  signed  to  Piombo 
to  say  nothing.  The  Corsican  shook  his  head  from  side  to 
side  with  a  disapproving  look. 

"Remain  here,"  the  First  Consul  said,  addressing  Barto- 
lomeo. "We  know  nothing.  I  will  see  that  your  estates 
are  purchased  so  as  to  give  you  at  once  the  means  of  living. 
Then  later,  some  time  hence,  we  will  remember  you.  But 
no  more  Yendetta.  There  is  no  Maquis  scrub  here.  If  you 
play  tricks  with  your  dagger,  there  is  no  hope  for  you.  Here 
the  law  protects  everybody,  and  we  do  not  do  justice  on  our 
own  account. ' ' 

"He  has  put  himself  at  the  head  of  a  strange  people," 
replied  Bartolomeo,  taking  Lucien 's  hand  and  pressing  it. 
"But  you  recognize  me  in  misfortune;  it  is  a  bond  between 
us  for  life  and  death;  and  you  may  command  every  one 


188  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

named  Piombo."  As  he  spoke,  his  brow  cleared,  and  he 
looked  about  him  approvingly. 

"You  are  not  badly  off  here,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  as 
if  he  would  like  to  lodge  there.  "And  you  are  dressed  all 
in  red  like  a  Cardinal." 

"It  rests  with  you  to  rise  and  have  a  palace  in  Paris," 
said  Bonaparte,  looking  at  him  from  head  to  foot.  "It  will 
often  happen  that  I  may  look  about  me  for  a  devoted  friend 
to  whom  I  can  trust  myself. ' ' 

A  sigh  of  gladness  broke  from  Piombo's  deep  chest;  he 
held  out  his  hand  to  the  First  Consul,  saying,  "There  is 
something  of  the  Corsican  in  you  still!" 

Bonaparte  smiled.  He  gazed  in  silence  at  this  man,  who 
had  brought  him  as  it  were  a  breath  of  air  from  his  native 
land,  from  the  island  where  he  had  formerly  been  so  miracu- 
lously saved  from  the  hatred  of  the  "English  party,"  and 
which  he  was  fated  never  to  see  again.  He  made  a  sign  to 
his  brother,  who  led  away  Bartolomeo  di  Piombo. 

Lucien  inquired  with  interest  as  to  the  pecuniary  position 
of  the  man  who  had  once  protected  his  family.  Piombo  led 
the  Minister  of  the  Interior  to  a  window  and  showed  him  his 
wife  and  Ginevra,  both  seated  on  a  heap  of  stones. 

"We  have  come  from  Fontainebieau  on  foot,"  said  he, 
"and  we  have  not  a  sou." 

Lucien  gave  his  fellow-countryman  his  purse,  and  desired 
him  to  come  again  next  morning  to  consult  as  to  the  means 
of  providing  for  his  family.  The  income  from  all  Piombo's 
possessions  in  Corsica  could  hardly  suffice  to  maintain  him 
respectably  in  Paris. 

Fifteen  years  elapsed  between  the  arrival  of  the  Piombo 
family  in  Paris  and  the  following  incidents,  which,  without 
the  story  of  this  event,  would  have  been  less  intelligible. 

Servin,  one  of  our  most  distinguished  artists,  was  the  first 
to  conceive  the  idea  of  opening  a  studio  for  young  ladies  who 
may  wish  to  take  lessons  in  painting.  He  was  a  man  of  over 
forty,  of  blameless  habits,  and  wholly  given  up  to  his  art; 


THE    VENDETTA  189 

and  he  had  married  for  love  the  daughter  of  a  General  with- 
out any  fortune.  At  first  mothers  brought  their  daughters 
themselves  to  the  professor's  studio;  but  when  they  under- 
stood his  high  principles  and  appreciated  the  care  by  which 
he  strove  to  deserve  such  confidence,  they  ended  by  sending 
the  girls  alone.  It  was  part  of  the  painter's  scheme  to  take 
as  pupils  only  young  ladies  of  rich  or  highly  respectable 
family,  that  no  difficulties  might  arise  as  to  the  society  in 
his  studio ;  he  had  even  refused  to  take  young  girls  who  in- 
tended to  become  artists,  and  who  must  necessarily  have  had 
certain  kinds  of  training  without  which  no  mastery  is  possi- 
ble. By  degrees  his  prudence,  the  superior  method  by  which 
he  initiated  his  pupils  into  the  secrets  of  his  art,  as  well  as 
the  security  their  mothers  felt  in  knowing  that  their  daugh- 
ters were  in  the  company  of  well-bred  girls,  and  in  the  ar- 
tist's character,  manners,  and  marriage,  won  him  a  high 
reputation  in  the  world  of  fashion.  As  soon  as  a  young 
girl  showed  any  desire  to  learn  drawing  or  painting,  and  her 
mother  asked  advice,  ' '  Send  her  to  Servin, ' '  was  always  the 
answer. 

Thus  Servin  had  a  specialty  for  teaching  ladies  art,  as 
Herbault  had  for  bonnets,  Leroy  for  dresses,  and  Chevet  for 
dainties.  It  was  acknowledged  that  a  young  woman  who 
had  taken  lessons  of  Servin  could  pronounce  definitively  on 
the  pictures  in  the  Louvre,  paint  a  portrait  in  a  superior 
manner,  copy  an  old  picture,  and  produce  her  own  painting 
of  genre.  Thus  this  artist  sufficed  for  all  the  requirements 
of  the  aristocracy. 

Notwithstanding  his  connection  with  all  the  best  houses 
in  Paris,  he  was  independent  and  patriotic,  preserving  with 
all  alike  the  light  and  witty  tone,  sometimes  ironical,  and 
the  freedom  of  opinion  which  characterize  painters. 

He  had  carried  his  scrupulous  precautions  into  the  ar- 
rangement of  the  place  where  his  scholars  worked.  The 
outer  entrance  to  the  loft  above  his  dwelling-rooms  had  been 
walled  up;  to  get  into  this  retreat,  as  sacred  as  a  harem,  the 
way  was  up  a  staircase  -in  the  centre  of  the  house.  This 


1W  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

studio,  which  occupied  the  whole  of  the  top  story,  was  on 
the  vast  scale  which  always  surprises  inquisitive  visitors 
when,  having  climbed  to  sixty  feet  above  the  ground,  they 
expect  to  find  an  artist  lodged  in  the  gutter.  It  was  a  kind 
of  gallery,  abundantly  lighted  by  immense  skylights  screened 
with  the  large  green  blinds  which  artists  use  to  distribute  the 
light.  A  quantity  of  caricatures,  heads  sketched  in  outline 
with  a  brush  or  the  point  of  a  palette  knife,  all  over  the  dark 
gray  walls,  proved  that,  allowing  for  a  difference  in  the  ex- 
pression, fine  young  ladies  have  as  much  whimsicality  in 
their  brain  as  men  can  have.  A  small  stove,  with  a  huge 
pipe  that  made  amazing  zigzags  before  reaching  the  upper 
region  of  the  roof,  was  the  inevitable  decoration  of  this 
studio.  There  was  a  shelf  all  round  the  room,  supporting 
plaster  casts  which  lay  there  in  confusion,  most  of  them 
tinder  a  coating  of  whitish  dust. 

Above  this  shelf  here  and  there  a  head  of  Niobe  hanging 
to  a  nail  showed  its  pathetic  bend,  a  Venus  smiled,  a  hand 
was  unexpectedly  thrust  out  before  your  eyes,  like  a  beggar's 
asking  alms;  then  there  were  anatomical  6corch6s,  yellow  with 
smoke,  and  looking  like  limbs  snatched  from  coffins;  and  pic- 
tures, drawings,  lay-figures,  frames  without  canvas,  and  can- 
vases without  frames,  completed  the  effect,  giving  the  room 
the  characteristic  aspect  of  a  studio,  a  singular  mixture  of 
ornamentation  and  bareness,  of  poverty  and  splendor,  of  care 
and  neglect. 

This  huge  sort  of  hold,  in  which  everything,  even  man, 
looks  small,  has  a  behind-the-scenes  flavor;  here  are  to  be 
seen  old  linen,  gilt  armor,  odds  and  ends  of  stuffs,  and  some 
machinery.  But  there  is  something  about  it  as  grand  as 
thought:  genius  and  death  are  there;  Diana  and  Apollo  side 
by  side  with  a  skull  or  a  skeleton ;  beauty  and  disorder,  po- 
etry and  reality,  gorgeous  coloring  in  shadow,  and  often  a 
whole  drama,  but  motionless  and  silent.  How  symbolical 
of  the  artist  brain! 

At  the  moment  when  my  story  begins  the  bright  sun  of 
July  lighted  up  the  studio,  and  two  beams  of  sunshine  shot 


THE    VENDETTA  191 

across  its  depths,  broad  bands  of  diaphanous  gold  in  which 
the  dust-motes  glistened.  A  dozen  easels  raised  their  pointed 
spars,  looking  like  the  masts  of  vessels  in  a  harbor.  Several 
young  girls  gave  life  to  the  scene  by  the  variety  of  their 
countenances  and  attitudes,  and  the  difference  in  their  dress. 
The  strong  shadows  cast  by  the  green  baize  blinds,  arranged 
to  suit  the  position  of  each  easel,  produced  a  multitude  of 
contrasts  and  fascinating  effects  of  clare-obscure. 

This  group  of  girls  formed  the  most  attractive  picture  in 
the  gallery.  A  fair-haired  girl,  simply  dressed,  stood  at  some 
distance  from  her  companions,  working  perseveringly  and 
seeming  to  foresee  misfortune;  no  one  looked  at  her  nor 
spoke  to  her;  she  was  the  prettiest,  the  most  modest,  and 
the  least  rich.  Two  principal  groups,  divided  by  a  little 
space,  represented  two  classes  of  society,  two  spirits,  even 
in  this  studio,  where  rank  and  fortune  ought  to  have  been 
forgotten. 

These  young  things,  sitting  or  standing,  surrounded  by 
their  paint-boxes,  playing  with  their  brushes  or  getting  them 
ready,  handling  their  bright-tinted  palettes,  painting,  chat- 
tering, laughing,  singing,  given  up  to  their  natural  impulses 
and  revealing  their  true  characters,  made  up  a  drama  un- 
known to  men;  this  one  proud,  haughty,  capricious,  with 
black  hair  and  beautiful  hands,  flashed  the  fire  of  her  eyes 
at  random;  that  one,  light-hearted  and  heedless,  a  smile  on 
her  lips,  her  hair  chestnut,  with  delicate  white  hands,  vir- 
ginal and  French,  a  light  nature  without  a  thought  of  evil, 
living  from  hour  to  hour;  another,  dreamy,  melancholy,  pale, 
her  head  drooping  like  a  falling  blossom:  her  neighbor,  on 
the  contrary,  tall,  indolent,  with  Oriental  manners,  and  long, 
black,  melting  eyes,  speaking  little,  but  lost  in  thought,  and 
stealing  a  look  at  the  head  of  Antinous. 

In  the  midst,  like  the  Jocoso  of  a  Spanish  comedy,  a 
girl,  full  of  wit  and  sparkling  sallies,  stood  watching  them 
all  with  a  single  glance,  and  making  them  laugh ;  raising  a 
face  so  full  of  life  that  it  could  not  but  be  pretty.  She  was 
the  leader  of  the  first  group  oi  pupils,  consisting  of  the  daugh- 


192  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

ters  of  bankers,  lawyers,  and  merchants — all  rich,  but  exposed 
to  all  the  minute  but  stinging  disdains  freely  poured  out  upon 
them  by  the  other  young  girls  who  belonged  to  the  aristoc- 
racy. These  were  governed  by  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman 
usher  to  the  King's  private  chamber,  a  vain  little  thing,  as 
silly  as  she  was  vain,  and  proud  of  her  father's  having  an 
office  at  Court.  She  aimed  at  seeming  to  understand  the 
master's  remarks  at  the  first  word,  and  appearing  to  work 
by  inspired  grace;  she  used  an  eyeglass,  came  very  much 
dressed,  very  late,  and  begged  her  companions  not  to  talk 
loud.  Among  this  second  group  might  be  observed  some 
exquisite  shapes  and  distinguished-looking  faces;  but  their 
looks  expressed  but  little  simplicity.  Though  their  atti- 
tudes were  elegant  and  their  movements  graceful,  their 
faces  were  lacking  in  candor,  and  it  was  easy  to  perceive 
that  they  belonged  to  a  world  where  politeness  forms  the 
character  at  an  early  age,  and  the  abuse  of  social  pleasures 
kills  the  feelings  and  develops  selfishness.  When  the 
whole  party  of  girl  students  was  complete  there  were  to 
be  seen  among  them  childlike  heads,  virgin  heads  of  en- 
chanting purity,  faces  where  the  parted  lips  showed  virgin 
teeth,  and  where  a  virgin  smile  came  and  went.  Then  the 
studio  suggested  not  a  seraglio,  but  a  group  of  angels  sit- 
ting on  a  cloud  in  heaven. 

It  was  near  noon;  Servin  had  not  yet  made  his  appear- 
ance. For  some  days  past  he  had  spent  most  of  his  time  at 
a  studio  he  had  elsewhere,  finishing  a  picture  he  had  there 
for  the  exhibition.  Suddenly  Mademoiselle  Ame'lie  Thi- 
rion,  the  head  of  the  aristocrats  in  this  little  assembly, 
spoke  at  some  length  to  her  neighbor;  there  was  profound 
silence  among  .the  patrician  group;  the  banker  faction  were 
equally  silent  from  astonishment,  and  tried  to  guess  the 
subject  of  such  a  conference.  But  the  secret  of  the  young 
ultras  was  soon  known.  Amelie  rose,  took  an  easel  that 
stood  near  her,  and  moved  it  to  some  distance  from  the 
"nobility,"  close  to  a  clumsy  partition  which  divided 
the  studio  from  a  dark  closet  where  broken  casts  were 


THE    VENDETTA  193 

kept,  paintings  that  the  professor  had  condemned,  and,  in 
winter,  the  firewood.  Ame'lie's  proceedings  gave  rise  to  a 
murmur  of  surprise  which  did  not  hinder  her  from  com- 
pleting the  removal  by  wheeling  up  to  the  easel  a  stool 
and  paint-box,  in  fact,  everything,  even  a  picture  by  Prud- 
hon,  of  which  a  pupil,  who  had  not  yet  come,  was  making 
a  copy.  After  this  coup  d'etat  the  party  of  the  right  painted 
on  in  silence;  but  the  left  talked  it  over  at  great  length. 

"What  will  Mademoiselle  Piombo  say?"  asked  one  of 
the  girls  of  Mademoiselle  Mathilde  Roguin,  the  oracle 
of  mischief  of  her  group. 

"She  is  not  a  girl  to  say  much,"  was  the  reply.  "But 
fifty  years  hence  she  will  remember  this  insult  as  if  she  had 
experienced  it  the  day  before,  and  will  find  some  cruel  means 
of  revenge.  She  is  a  person  I  should  not  like  to  be  at  war 
with." 

"The  proscription  to  which  those  ladies  have  condemned 
her  is  all  the  more  unjust,"  said  another  young  girl,  "be- 
cause Mademoiselle  Ginevra  was  very  sad  the  day  before 
yesterday;  her  father,  they  say,  has  just  given  up  his  ap- 
pointment. This  will  add  to  her  troubles,  while  she  was 
very  good  to  those  young  ladies  during  the  Hundred  Days. 
Did  she  ever  say  a  word  that  could  hurt  them  ?  On  the 
contrary,  she  avoided  talking  politics.  But  our  ultras  seem 
to  be  prompted  by  jealousy  rather  than  by  party -spirit. " 

"I  have  a  great  mind  to  fetch  Mademoiselle  Piombo's 
easel  and  place  it  by  mine,"  said  Mathilde  Eoguin.  She 
rose,  but  on  second  thoughts  she  sat  down  again.  "With 
a  spirit  like  Mademoiselle  Grinevra's,"  said  she,  "it  is  im- 
possible to  know  how  she  would  take  our  civility.  Let  us 
wait  and  see." 

"Eccola!"  said  the  black-eyed  girl  languidly.  In  fact, 
the  sound  of  footsteps  coming  upstairs  was  heard  in  the 
studio.  The  words,  "Here  she  comes!"  passed  from  mouth 
to  mouth,  and  then  perfect  silence  fell. 

To  understand  the  full  importance  of  the  ostracism  carried 
into  effect  by  Amelie  Thirion,  it  must  be  told  that  this  scene 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC— 9. 


194  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

took  place  toward  the  end  of  the  month  of  July,  1815.  The 
second  restoration  of -the  Bourbons  broke  up  many  friend- 
ships which  had  weathered  the  turmoil  of  the  first.  At  this 
time  families,  almost  always  divided  among  themselves,  re- 
newed many  of  the  most  deplorable  scenes  which  tarnish  the 
history  of  all  countries  at  periods  of  civil  or  religious  strug- 
gles. Children,  young  girls,  old  men,  had  caught  the  mon- 
archical fever  from  which  the  Government  was  suffering. 
Discord  flew  in  under  the  domestic  roof,  and  suspicion 
dyed  in  gloomy  hues  the  most  intimate  conversations  and 
actions. 

Ginevra  di  Piombo  idolized  Napoleon;  indeed,  how 
could  she  have  hated  him  ?  The  Emperor  was  her  fellow 
countryman,  and  her  father's  benefactor  Baron  di  Piombo 
was  one  of  Napoleon's  followers  who  had  most  efficiently 
worked  to  bring  him  back  from  Elba.  Incapable  of  re- 
nouncing his  political  faith,  nay,  eager  to  proclaim  it, 
Piombo  had  remained  in  Paris  in  the  midst  of  enemies. 
Hence  Ginevra  di  Piombo  was  ranked  with  the  " suspi- 
cious characters,"  all  the  more  so  because  she  made  no 
secret  of  the  regret  her  family  felt  at  the  second  restora- 
tion. The  only  tears  she  had  perhaps  ever  shed  in  her 
life  were  wrung  from  her  by  the  twofold  tidings  of  Bona- 
parte's surrender  on  board  the  "Bellerophon"  and  the  ar- 
rest of  Labe*doyere. 

The  young  ladies  forming  the  aristocratic  party  in  the 
studio  belonged  to  the  most  enthusiastically  Eoyalist  fam- 
ilies of  Paris.  It  would  be  difficult  to  give  any  idea  of  the 
exaggerated  feelings  of  the  time,  and  of  the  horror  felt 
toward  Bonapartists.  However  mean  and  trivial  Ame'lie 
Thirion's  conduct  may  seem  to-day,  it  was  then  a  very 
natural  demonstration  of  hatred.  Ginevra  di  Piombo,  one 
of  Servin's  earliest  pupils,  had  occupied  the  place  of  which 
they  wished  to  deprive  her  ever  since  the  first  day  she  had 
come  to  the  studio.  The  aristocratic  group  had  gradually 
settled  round  her ;  and  to  turn  her  out  of  a  place,  which  in 
a  certain  sense  belonged  to  her,  was  not  merely  to  insult 


THE    VENDETTA  195 

her,  but  to  cause  her  some  pain,  for  all  artists  have  a  pre- 
dilection for  the  spot  where  they  work. 

However,  political  hostility  had  perhaps  not  much  to 
do  with  the  conduct  of  this  little  studio  party  of  the  Right. 
Ginevra  di  Piombo,  the  most  accomplished  of  Servin's 
pupils,  was  an  object  of  the  deepest  jealousy.  The  master 
professed  an  equal  admiration  for  the  talents  and  the  char- 
acter of  this  favorite  pupil,  who  served  as  the  standard  of 
all  his  comparisons ;  and  indeed,  while  it  was  impossible  to 
explain  the  ascendency  this  young  girl  exercised  over  all 
who  were  about  her,  she  enjoyed  in  this  small  world  an  in- 
fluence resembling  that  of  Bonaparte  over  his  soldiers.  The 
aristocratic  clique  had,  some  days  since,  resolved  on  the  over- 
throw of  this  queen;  but  as  no  one  had  been  bold  enough  to 
repulse  the  Bonapartist,  Mademoiselle  Thirion  had  just  struck 
the  decisive  blow  so  as  to  make  her  companions  the  accom- 
plices of  her  hatred.  Though  Ginevra  was  really  beloved 
by  some  of  the  Royalist  party,  who  at  home  were  abun- 
dantly lectured  on  politics,  with  the  tact  peculiar  to  women 
they  judged  it  best  not  to  interfere  in  the  quarrel. 

On  entering,  Ginevra  was  received  in  perfect  silence.  Of 
all  the  girls  who  had  yet  appeared  at  Servin's  studio,  she  was 
the  handsomest,  the  tallest,  and  the  most  finely  made.  Her 
gait  had  a  stamp  of  dignity  and  grace  which  commanded  re- 
spect. Her  face,  full  of  intelligence,  seemed  radiant,  it  was 
so  transfused  with  the  animation  peculiar  to  Corsicans,  which 
does  not  exclude  calmness.  Her  abundant  hair,  her  eyes, 
and  their  black  lashes  told  of  passion.  Though  the  cor- 
ners of  her  mouth  were  softly  drawn  and  her  lips  a  little 
too  thick,  they  had  the  kindly  expression  which  strong 
people  derive  from  the  consciousness  of  strength.  By  a 
singular  freak  of  nature  the  charm  of  her  features  was  in 
some  sort  belied  by  a  marble  forehead  stamped  with  an 
almost  savage  pride,  and  the  traditional  habits  of  Corsica. 
That  was  the  only  bond  between  her  and  her  native  land; 
in  every  other  detail  of  her  person  the  simplicity  and  free- 
dom of  Lombard  beauties  were  so  bewitching  that  only  in 


196  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

her  absence  could  any  one  bear  to  cause  her  the  smallest 
pain.  She  was,  indeed,  so  attractive,  that  her  old  father, 
out  of  prudence,  never  allowed  her  to  walk  alone  to  the 
studio. 

The  only  fault  of  this  really  poetic  creature  came  of  the 
very  power  of  such  fully  developed  beauty.  She  had  re- 
fused to  marry,  out  of  affection  for  her  father  and  mother, 
feeling  herself  necessary  to  them  in  their  old  age.  Her  taste 
for  painting  had  taken  the  place  of  the  passions  which  com- 
monly agitate  women. 

"You  are  all  very  silent  to-day,"  she  said,  after  coming 
forward  a  step  or  two.  "Good-morning,  my  little  Laure," 
she  added  in  a  gentle,  caressing  tone,  as  she  went  up  to  the 
young  girl  who  was  painting  apart  from  the  rest.  "That 
head  is  very  good.  The  flesh  is  a  little  too  pink,  but  it  is 
all  capitally  drawn." 

Laure  raised  her  head,  looked  at  Ginevra  much  touched, 
and  their  faces  brightened  with  an  expression  of  mutual  af- 
fection. A  faint  smile  gave  life  to  the  Italian's  lips,  but 
she  seemed  pensive,  and  went  slowly  to  her  place,  care- 
lessly glancing  at  the  drawings  and  pictures,  and  saying 
good-morning  to  each  of  the  girls  of  the  first  group,  with- 
out observing  the  unusual  curiosity  excited  by  her  pres- 
ence. She  might  have  been  a  queen  amid  her  Court.  She 
did  not  observe  the  deep  silence  that  reigned  among  the 
aristocrats,  and  passed  their  camp  without  saying  a  word. 
Her  absence  of  mind  was  so  complete  that  she  went  to  her 
easel,  opened  her  paint-box,  took  out  her  brushes,  slipped 
on  her  brown  linen  cuffs,  tied  her  apron,  examined  her 
palette,  all  without  thinking,  as  it  seemed,  of  what  she  was 
doing.  All  the  heads  of  the  humbler  group  were  turned  to 
look  at  her.  And  if  the  young  ladies  of  the  Thirion  faction 
were  less  frankly  impatient  than  their  companions,  their  side 
glances  were  nevertheless  directed  to  Ginevra. 

"She  notices  nothing,"  said  Mademoiselle  Roguin. 

At  this  moment  Ginevra,  roused  from  the  meditative  at- 
titude in  which  she  had  gazed  at  her  canvas,  turned  her 


THE    VENDETTA  197 

head  toward  the  aristocratic  party.  With  one  glance  she 
measured  the  distance  that  lay  between  them,  and  held  her 
peace. 

"It  has  not  occurred  to  her  that  they  meant  to  insult 
her,"  said  Mathilde.  "She  has  neither  colored  nor  turned 
pale.  How  provoked  those  young  ladies  will  be  if  she 
likes  her  new  place  better  than  the  old  one!" — "You  are 
quite  apart  there,  Mademoiselle,"  she  added  louder,  and 
addressing  Ginevra. 

The  Italian  girl  affected  not  to  hear,  or  perhaps  she  did 
not  hear;  she  hastily  rose,  walked  rather  slowly  along  the 
partition  which  divided  the  dark  closet  from  the  studio, 
seeming  to  examine  the  skylight  from  which  the  light 
fell ;  and  to  this  she  ascribed  so  much  importance  that  she 
got  upon  a  chair  to  fasten  the  green  baize  which  interfered 
with  the  light,  a  good  deal  higher.  At  this  elevation  she 
was  on  a  level  with  a  small  crack  in  the  boarding,  the  real 
object  of  her  efforts,  for  the  look  she  cast  through  it  can 
only  be  compared  with  that  of  a  miser  discovering  Alad- 
din's treasure.  She  quickly  descended,  came  back  to  her 
place,  arranged  her  picture,  affected  still  to  be  dissatisfied 
with  the  light,  pushed  a  table  close  to  the  partition,  and 
placed  a  chair  on  it;  then  she  nimbly  mounted  this  scaf- 
folding, and  again  peeped  through  the  crack.  She  gave 
but  one  look  into  the  closet,  which  was  lighted  by  a  win- 
dow at  the  top  of  the  partition,  but  what  she  saw  impressed 
her  so  vividly  that  she  started. 

"You  will  fall,  Mademoiselle  OHnevra!"  cried  Laure. 

All  the  girls  turned  to  look  at  their  imprudent  com- 
panion, who  was  tottering.  The  fear  of  seeing  them  gather 
round  her  gave  her  courage ;  she  recovered  her  strength  and 
her  balance,  and  dancing  on  the  chair,  she  turned  to  Laure, 
and  said  with  some  agitation: 

"Bah!     It  is  at  any  rate  safer  than  a  throne!" 

She  quickly  arranged  the  baize,  came  down,  pushed  the 
table  and  the  chair  far  from  the  partition,  returned  to  her 
easel,  and  made  a  few  more  attempts,  seeming  to  try  for  an 


BALZAC'S    WORKS 

effect  of  light  that  suited  her.  Her  picture  did  not  really 
trouble  her  at  all;  her  aim  was  to  get  close  to  the  dark 
closet  by  which  she  placed  herself,  as  she  wished,  at  the 
end  near  the  door.  Then  she  prepared  to  set  her  palette, 
still  in  perfect  silence.  Where  she  now  was  she  soon  heard 
more  distinctly  a  slight  noise  which,  on  the  day  before,  had 
greatly  stirred  her  curiosity,  and  sent  her  young  imagination 
wandering  over  a  wide  field  of  conjecture.  She  easily  rec- 
ognized it  as  the  deep,  regular  breathing  of  the  sleeping 
man  whom  she  had  just  now  seen.  Her  curiosity  was  sat- 
isfied, but  she  found  herself  burdened  with  an  immense 
responsibility.  Through  the  crack  she  had  caught  sight 
of  the  Imperial  eagle,  and  on  a  camp  bed,  in  the  dim  light, 
had  seen  the  figure  of  an  officer  of  the  guard.  She  guessed 
it  all.  Servin  was  sheltering  a  refugee. 

She  now  trembled  lest  one  of  her  companions  should 
come  to  examine  her  picture,  and  should  hear  the  unfortu- 
nate man  breathe,  or  heave  too  deep  a  sigh,  such  as  had 
fallen  on  her  ear  during  yesterday's  lesson.  She  resolved 
to  remain  near  the  door,  and  trust  to  her  wits  to  cheat  the 
tricks  of  fate. 

"I  had  better  remain  here,"  thought  she,  "to  prevent 
some  disaster,  than  leave  the  poor  prisoner  at  the  mercy  of 
some  giddy  prank." 

This  was  the  secret  of  Ginevra's  apparent  indifference 
when  she  found  her  easel  transplanted;  she  was  secretly  de- 
lighted, since  she  had  been  able  to  satisfy  her  curiosity  in  a 
natural  manner;  and  besides,  she  was  too  much  absorbed  at 
this  moment  to  inquire  into  the  reason  of  her  exclusion. 
Nothing  is  more  mortifying  to  young  girls,  or  indeed  to  any 
one,  than  to  see  a  practical  joke,  an  insult,  or  a  witticism  fail 
of  its  effect  in  consequence  of  the  victim's  contempt.  It 
would  seem  that  our  hatred  of  an  enemy  is  increased  by  the 
height  to  which  he  can  rise  above  us. 

Ginevra's  conduct  remained  a  riddle  to  all  her  compan- 
ions. Her  friends  and  her  foes  were  alike  surprised,  for  she 
was  allowed  to  have  every  good  quality  excepting  forgive- 


THE    VENDETTA  199 

ness  of  injuries.  Though  the  opportunities  for  showing  this 
vice  of  temper  had  rarely  been  offered  to  Ginevra  by  the  in- 
cidents of  studio  life,  the  instances  she  had  happened  to  give 
of  her  vindictive  spirit  and  determination  had  none  the  less 
made  a  deep  impression  on  her  companions'  minds.  After 
many  guesses,  Mademoiselle  Eoguin  finally  regarded  the 
Italian's  silence  as  evidence  of  a  magnanimity  above  all 
praise;  and  her  party,  inspired  by  her,  conceived  a  plan  to 
humiliate  the  aristocrats  of  the  studio.  They  achieved  their 
purpose  by  a  fire  of  sarcasms  directed  at  the  pride  and  airs 
of  the  party  of  the  right. 

Madame  Servin's  arrival  put  an  end  to  this  contest  of 
self-assertiveness.  Ame'lie,  with  the  shrewdness  which  is 
always  coupled  with  malice,  had  remarked,  watched,  and 
wondered  at  the  excessive  absence  of  mind  which  hindered 
Ginevra  from  hearing  the  keenly  polite  dispute  of  which  she 
was  the  subject.  The  revenge  which  Mademoiselle  Roguin 
and  her  followers  were  wreaking  on  Mademoiselle  Thirion 
and  her  party  had  thus  the  fatal  effect  of  setting  the  young 
Ultras  to  discover  the  cause  of  Ginevra's  absorbed  silence. 
The  beautiful  Italian  became  the  centre  of  observation,  and 
was  watched  by  her  friends  as  much  as  by  her  enemies.  It 
is  very  difficult  to  hide  the  slightest  excitement,  the  most 
trifling  feeling,  from  fifteen  idle  and  inquisitive  girls  whose 
mischief  and  wits  crave  only  for  secrets  to  guess,  and  in- 
trigues to  plot  or  to  baffle,  and  who  can  ascribe  to  a  gesture, 
to  a  glance,  to  a  word,  so  many  meanings,  that  they  can 
hardly  fail  to  discover  the  true  one.  Thus  Ginevra  di 
Piombo's  secret  was  in  great  peril  of  being  found  out. 

At  this  moment  Madame  Servin's  presence  produced  a 
diversion  in  the  drama  that  was  being  obscurely  played  at 
the  bottom  of  these  young  hearts;  while  its  sentiments,  its 
ideas,  its  development,  were  expressed  by  almost  allegorical 
words,  by  significant  looks,  by  gestures,  and  even  by  silence, 
often  more  emphatic  than  speech. 

The  moment  Madame  Servin  came  into  the  studio  her  eyes 
turned  to  the  door  by  which  Ginevra  was  standing.  Under 


200  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

the  present  circumstances  this  look  was  not  lost.  If  at  first 
none  of  the  maidens  observed  it,  Mademoiselle  Thirion  re- 
membered it  afterward,  and  accounted  for  the  suspiciousness, 
the  alarn,  and  mystery  which  gave  a  hunted  expression  to 
Madame  Servin's  eyes. 

"Mesdemoiselles,"  she  said,  "Monsieur  Servin  cannot 
come  to-day."  Then  she  paid  some  little  compliment  to 
each  pupil,  all  of  them  welcoming  her  in  the  girlish,  ca- 
ressing way  which  lies  as  much  in  the  voice  and  eyes  as  in 
actions.  She  immediately  went  to  Ginevra  under  an  impulse 
of  uneasiness  which  she  vainly  tried  to  conceal.  The  Ital- 
ian and  the  painter's  wife  exchanged  friendly  nods,  and  then 
stood  in  silence,  one  painting,  the  other  watching  her  paint. 
The  officer's  breathing  was  easily  audible,  but  Madame  Servin 
could  take  no  notice  of  it;  and  her  dissimulation  was  so  com- 
plete that  Giuevra  was  tempted  to  accuse  her  of  wilful  deaf- 
ness. At  this  moment  the  stranger  turned  on  the  bed.  The 
Italian  girl  looked  Madame  Servin  steadily  in  the  face,  and, 
without  betraying  the  smallest  agitation,  the  lady  said,  "Your 
copy  is  as  fine  as  the  original.  If  I  had  to  choose,  I  should 
really  be  puzzled. ' ' 

"Monsieur  Servin  has  not  let  his  wife  into  the  secret  of 
this  mystery,"  thought  Ginevra,  who,  after  answering  the 
young  wife  with  a  gentle  smile  of  incredulity,  sang  a  snatch 
of  some  national  canzonetta  to  cover  any  sounds  the  prisoner 
might  make. 

It  was  so  unusual  to  hear  the  studious  Italian  sing  that 
all  the  girls  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  Later  this  incident 
served  as  evidence  to  the  charitable  suppositions  of  hatred. 
Madame  Servin  soon  went  away,  and  the  hours  of  study 
ended  without  further  event.  Ginevra  let  all  her  compan- 
ions leave,  affecting  to  work  on;  but  she  unconsciously  be- 
trayed her  wish  to  be  alone,  for  as  the  pupils  made  ready  to 
go  she  looked  at  them  with  ill- disguised  impatience.  Mad- 
emoiselle Thirion,  who  within  these  few  hours  had  become 
a  cruel  foe  to  the  young  girl,  who  was  her  superior  in  every- 
thing, guessed  by  the  instinct  of  hatred  that  her  rival's 


THE    VENDETTA  201 

affected  industry  covered  a  mystery.  She  had  been  struck 
more  than  once  by  the  attention  with  which  Ginevra  seemed 
to  be  listening  to  a  sound  no  one  else  could  hear.  The  ex- 
pression she  now  read  in  the  Italian's  eyes  was  as  a  flash  of 
illumination.  She  was  the  last  to  leave,  and  went  in  on  her 
way  down  to  see  Madame  Servin,  with  whom  she  stayed  a 
few  minutes.  Then,  pretending  that  she  had  forgotten  her 
bag,  she  very  softly  went  upstairs  again  to  the  studio,  and 
discovered  Grinevra  at  the  top  of  a  hastily  constructed  scaf- 
folding, so  lost  in  contemplation  of  the  unknown  soldier  that 
she  did  not  hear  the  light  sound  of  her  companion's  footsteps. 
It  is  true  that  Amelie  walked  on  eggs — to  use  a  phrase  of 
Walter  Scott's;  she  retired  to  the  door  and  coughed.  Gi- 
nevra  started,  turned  her  head,  saw  her  enemy,  and  colored; 
then  she  quickly  untied  the  blind,  to  mislead  her  as  to  her 
purpose,  and  came  down.  After  putting  away  her  paint- 
box, she  left  the  studio,  carrying  stamped  upon  her  heart 
the  image  of  a  man's  head  as  charming  as  the  Endymidn, 
Girodet's  masterpiece,  which  she  had  copied  a  few  days 
previously. 

"So  young  a  man,  and  proscribed  I  Who  can  he  be? — 
for  it  is  not  Marshal  Ney. " 

These  two  sentences  are  the  simplest  expression  of  all 
the  ideas  which  Ginevra  turned  over  in  her  mind  during  two 
days.  The  next  day  but  one,  notwithstanding  her  hurry  to 
be  first  at  the  painting  gallery,  she  found  that  Mademoiselle 
Thirion  had  already  come  in  a  carriage.  Ginevra  and  her 
enemy  watched  each  other  for  some  time,  but  each  kept  her 
countenance  impenetrable  by  the  other.  Ame'lie  had  seen 
the  stranger's  handsome  face;  but  happily,  and  at  the  same 
time  unhappily,  the  eagles  and  the  uniform  were  not  within 
the  range  of  her  eye  through  the  crack.  She  lost  herself  in  con- 
jecture. Suddenly  Servin  came  in,  much  earlier  than  usual. 

"Mademoiselle  Ginevra,"  said  he,  after  casting  an  eye 
round  the  gallery,  "why  have  you  placed  yourself  there? 
The  light  is  bad.  Come  nearer  to  these  young  ladies,  and 
lower  your  blind  a  little." 


202  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Then  he  sat  down  by  Laure,  whose  work  deserved  his 
most  lenient  criticism. 

"Well  done!"  he  exclaimed,  "this  head  is  capitally  done. 
You  will  be  a  second  Ginevra. " 

The  master  went  from  easel  to  easel,  blaming,  flattering, 
and  jesting;  and  making  himself,  as  usual,  more  feared  for 
his  jests  than  for  his  reproofs. 

The  Italian  had  not  obeyed  his  wishes;  she  remained  at 
her  post  with  the  firm  intention  of  staying  there.  She  took 
out  a  sheet  of  paper  and  began  to  sketch  in  sepia  the  head  of 
the  unhappy  refugee.  A  work  conceived  of  with  passion  al- 
ways bears  a  particular  stamp.  The  faculty  of  giving  truth 
to  a  rendering  of  nature  or  of  a  thought  constitutes  genius, 
and  passion  can  often  take  its  place.  Thus  in  the  circum- 
stances in  which  Ginevra  found  herself,  either  the  intuition 
she  owed  to  her  memory,  which  had  been  deeply  struck,  or 
perhaps  necessity,  the  mother  of  greatness,  lent  her  a  super- 
natural flash  of  talent.  The  officer's  head  was  thrown  off  on 
the  paper  with  an  inward  trembling  that  she  ascribed  to  fear, 
and  which  a  physiologist  would  have  recognized  as  the  fever 
of  inspiration.  From  time  to  time  she  stole  a  furtive  glance 
at  her  companions,  so  as  to  be  able  to  hide  the  sketch  in  case 
of  any  indiscretion  on  their  part.  But  in  spite  of  her  sharp 
lookout,  there  was  a  moment  when  she  failed  to  perceive 
that  her  relentless  enemy,  under  the  shelter  of  a  huge  port- 
folio, had  turned  her  eyeglass  on  the  mysterious  drawing. 
Mademoiselle  Thirion,  recognizing  the  refugee's  features, 
raised  her  head  suddenly,  and  Ginevra  slipped  away  the 
sheet  of  paper. 

"Why  do  you  stay  there,  in  spite  of  my  opinion,  Madem- 
oiselle?" the  professor  gravely  asked  Ginevra. 

The  girl  hastily  turned  her  easel  so  that  no  one  could  see 
her  sketch,  and  said,  in  an  agitated  voice,  as  she  showed  it 
to  her  master:  "Don't  you  think  with  me  that  this  is  a  better 
light  ?  May  I  not  stay  where  I  am  ? ' ' 

Servin  turned  pale.  As  nothing  can  escape  the  keen  eyes 
of  hatred,  Mademoiselle  Thirion  threw  herself,  so  to  speak, 


THE    VENDETTA  203 

into  the  excited  feelings  that  agitated  the  professor  and  his 
pupil. 

"You  are  right,"  said  Servin.  "But  you  will  soon  know 
more  than  I  do,"  he  added,  with  a  forced  laugh.  There  was 
a  silence,  during  which  the  master  looked  at  the  head  of  the 
officer.  "This  is  a  masterpiece,  worthy  of  Salvator  Eosa!" 
he  exclaimed,  with  an  artist's  vehemence. 

At  this  exclamation  all  the  young  people  rose,  and  Mad- 
emoiselle Thirion  came  forward  with  the  swiftness  of  a  tiger 
springing  on  its  prey.  At  this  instant  the  prisoner,  roused 
by  the  turmoil,  woke  up.  Ginevra  overset  her  stool,  spoke 
a  few  incoherent  sentences,  and  began  to  laugh;  but  she  had 
folded  the  portrait  in  half  and  thrown  it  into  a  portfolio  be- 
fore her  terrible  enemy  could  see  it.  The  girls  crowded 
round  the  easel;  Servin  enlarged  in  a  loud  voice  on  the 
beauties  of  the  copy  on  which  his  favorite  pupil  was  just 
now  engaged ;  and  all  the  party  were  cheated  by  this  strata- 
gem, excepting  Amelie,  who  placed  herself  behind  her  com- 
panions and  tried  to  open  the  portfolio  into  which  she  had 
seen  the  sketch  put.  Ginevra  seized  it  and  set  it  in  front 
of  her  without  a  word,  and  the  two  girls  gazed  at  each  other 
in  silence. 

"Come,  young  ladies,  to  your  places!"  said  Servin.  "If 
you  want  to  know  as  much  as  Mademoiselle  di  Piombo,  you 
must  not  be  always  talking  of  fashions  and  balls,  and  trifling 
so  much. ' ' 

When  the  girls  had  all  returned  to  their  easels,  the  master 
sat  down  by  Ginevra. 

"Was  it  not  better  that  this  mystery  should  be  discovered 
by  me  than  by  any  one  else  ? ' '  said  the  Italian  girl  in  a  low 
tone. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  painter.  "You  are  patriotic;  but 
even  if  you  had  not  been,  you  are  still  the  person,  to  whom 
I  should  intrust  it. ' ' 

The  master  and  pupil  understood  each  other,  and  Ginevra 
was  not  now  afraid  to  ask,  "Who  is  he?" 

"An  intimate  friend  of  Labe*doy&re's;  the  man  who,  next 


204  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

to  the  unfortunate  Colonel,  did  most  to  effect  a  junction  be- 
tween the  7th  and  the  Grenadiers  of  Elba.  He  was  a  Major 
in  the  Guards,  and  has  just  come  back  from  Waterloo." 

"Why  have  you  not  burned  his  uniform  and  shako,  and 
put  him  into  civilian  dress?"  asked  Ginevra  vehemently. 

"Some  clothes  are  to  be  brought  for  him  this  evening. :1 

"You  should  have  shut  up  the  studio  for  a  few  days." 

"He  is  going  away." 

"Does  he  wish  to  die  ?"  said  the  girl.  "Let  him  stay  with 
you  during  these  first  days  of  the  storm.  Paris  is  the  only 
place  in  France  where  a  man  may  be  safely  hidden.  Is  he 
a  friend  of  yours  ? ' '  she  added. 

"No.  He  has  no  claim  to  my  regard  but  his  misfortunes. 
This  is  how  he  fell  into  my  hands;  my  father-in-law,  who 
had  rejoined  his  regiment  during  this  campaign,  met  the 
poor  young  man,  and  saved  him  very  cleverly  from  those 
who  have  arrested  Labe'doyere.  He  wanted  to  defend  him, 
like  a  madman ! ' ' 

"And  do  you  call  him  so!"  cried  Ginevra,  with  a  glance 
cf  surprise  at  the  painter,  who  did  not  speak  for  a  moment. 

"My  father-in-law  is  too  closely  watched  to  be  able  to 
keep  any  one  in  his  house,"  he  went  on.  "He  brought  him 
here  by  night  last  week.  I  hoped  to  hide  him  from  every 
eye  by  keeping  him  in  this  corner,  the  only  place  in  the  house 
where  he  can  be  safe." 

"If  I  can  be  of  any  use,  command  me,"  said  Ginevra. 
"I  know  Marshal  Feltre." 

"Well,  we  shall  see,"  replied  the  painter. 

This  conversation  had  lasted  too  long  not  to  be  remarked 
by  all  the  other  pupils.  Servin  left  Ginevra,  came  back  to 
each  easel,  and  gave  such  long  lessons  that  he  was  still  up- 
stairs when  the  clock  struck  the  hour  at  which  his  pupils 
usually  left. 

"You  have  forgotten  your  bag,  Mademoiselle,"  cried  the 
professor,  running  after  the  young  lady,  who  condescended 
to  act  the  spy  to  gratify  her  hatred. 

The  inquisitive  pupil  came  back  for  the  bag,  expressing 


THE    VENDETTA  205 

some  surprise  at  her  own  carelessness;  but  Servin's  atten- 
tion was  to  her  additional  proof  of  the  existence  of  a  mys- 
tery which  was  undoubtedly  a  serious  one.  She  had  already 
planned  what  should  follow,  and  could  say,  like  the  Abbe* 
Vertot,  "I  have  laid  my  siege."  She  ran  downstairs 
noisily,  and  violently  slammed  the  door  leading  to  Ser- 
vin's rooms,  that  it  might  be  supposed  she  had  gone  out; 
but  she  softly  went  upstairs  again,  and  hid  behind  the 
door  of  the  studio. 

When  the  painter  and  Ginevra  supposed  themselves 
alone,  he  tapped  in  a  particular  manner  at  the  door  of  the 
attic,  which  at  once  opened  on  its  rusty  creaking  hinges. 
The  Italian  girl  saw  a  tall  and  well-built  youth,  whose  Im- 
perial uniform  set  her  heart  beating.  The  officer  carried 
his  arm  in  a  sling,  and  his  pale  face  told  of  acute  suffering. 
He  started  at  seeing  her,  a  stranger.  Amelie,  who  could 
see  nothing,  was  afraid  to  stay  any  longer;  but  she  had 
heard  the  creaking  of  the  door,  and  that  was  enough. 
She  silently  stole  away. 

"Fear  nothing,"  said  the  painter.  "Mademoiselle  is  the 
daughter  of  the  Emperor's  most  faithful  friend,  the  Baron 
di  Piombo." 

The  young  officer  felt  no  doubt  of  Ginevra 's  loyalty 
when  once  he  had  looked  at  her. 

"You  are  wounded?"  she  said. 

"Oh,  it  is  nothing,  Mademoiselle;   the  cut  is  healing." 

At  this  moment  the  shrill  and  piercing  tones  of  men  in 
the  street  came  up  to  the  studio,  crying  out,  "This  is  the 
sentence  which  condemns  to  death — "  All  three  shud- 
dered. The  soldier  was  the  first  to  hear  a  name  at  which 
he  turned  pale. 

"LabeMoy&re!"    he  exclaimed,   dropping  on  to  a  stool. 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  Drops  of  sweat 
gathered  on  the  young  man's  livid  brow;  with  a  gesture 
of  despair  he  clutched  the  black  curls  of  his  hair,  resting 
his  elbow  on  Ginevra' s  easel. 

"After  all,"  said  he,  starting  to  his  feet,  "Labe'doyere 


206  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

and  I  knew  what  we  were  doing.  We  knew  the  fate  that 
awaited  us  if  we  triumphed  or  if  we  failed.  He  is  dying 
for  the  cause,  while  I  am  in  hiding — " 

He  hurried  toward  the  studio  door;  but  Grinevra,  more 
nimble  than  he,  rushed  forward  and  stopped  the  way. 

"Can  you  restore  the  Emperor?"  she  said.  "Do  you 
think  you  can  raise  the  giant  again,  when  he  could  not 
keep  his  feet?" 

"What  then  is  to  become  of  me?"  said  the  refugee,  ad- 
dressing the  two  friends  whom  chance  had  sent  him.  "I 
have  not  a  relation  in  the  world;  Labe'doyere  was  my 
friend  and  protector,  I  am  now  alone;  to-morrow  I  shall 
be  exiled  or  condemned;  I  have  never  had  any  fortune 
but  my  pay;  I  spent  my  last  crown-piece  to  come  and 
snatch  Labe'doyere  from  death  and  get  him  away.  Death 
ia  an  obvious  necessity  to  me.  When  a  man  is  determined 
to  die,  he  must  know  how  to  sell  his  head  to  the  execu- 
tioner. 1  was  thinking  just  now  that  an  honest  man's  life 
is  well  worth  that  of  two  traitors,  and  that  a  dagger-thrust, 
'judiciously  placed,  may  give  one  immortality." 

This  passion  of  despair  frightened  the  painter,  and  even 
Ginevra,  who  fully  understood  the  young  man.  The  Ital- 
ian admired  the  beautiful  head  and  the  delightful  voice,  of 
which  the  accents  of  rage  scarcely  disguised  the  sweetness; 
then  she  suddenly  dropped  balm  on  all  the  hapless  man's 
wounds. 

" Monsieur  1"  said  she,  "as  to  your  pecuniary  difficul- 
ties, allow  me  to  offer  you  the  money  I  myself  have  saved. 
My  father  is  rich;  I  am  his  only  child;  he  loves  me,  and  I 
am  quite  sure  he  will  not  blame  me.  Have  no  scruples  in 
accepting  it;  our  wealth  comes  from  the  Emperor,  we  have 
nothing  which  is  not  the  bounty  of  his  munificence.  Is  it 
not  gratitude  to  help  one  of  his  faithful  soldiers  ?  So  take 
this  money  with  as  little  ceremony  as  I  make  about  offer- 
ing it.  It  is  only  money,"  she  added  in  a  scornful  tone. 
"Then,  as  to  friends — you  will  find  friends!"  And  she 
proudly  raised  her  head,  while  her  eyes  shone  with  un- 


THE    VENDETTA  207 

wonted  brilliancy.  "The  head  which  must  fall  to-morrow 
— the  mark  of  a  dozen  guns — saves  yours,"  she  went  on. 
"Wait  till  this  storm  is  over,  and  you  can  take  service  in 
a  foreign  land  if  you  are  not  forgotten,  or  in  the  French 
army  if  you  are." 

In  the  comfort  offered  by  a  woman  there  is  a  delicacy 
of  feeling  which  always  has  a  touch  of  something  motherly, 
something  far-seeing  and  complete;  but  when  such  words 
of  peace  and  hope  are  seconded  by  grace  of  gesture,  and 
the  eloquence  which  comes  from  the  heart,  above  all,  when 
the  comforter  is  beautiful,  it  is  hard  for  a  young  man  to 
resist.  The  young  Colonel  inhaled  love  by  every  sense. 
A  faint  flush  tinged  his  white  cheeks,  and  his  eyes  lost  a 
little  of  the  melancholy  that  dimmed  them  as  he  said,  in 
a  strange  tone  of  voice,  "You  are  an  angel  of  goodness  1— 
But,  LabeMoyere!"  he  added,  "LabeMoyere!" 

At  this  cry  they  all  three  looked  at  each  other,  speech- 
less, and  understood  each  other.  They  were  friends,  not 
of  twenty  minutes,  but  of  twenty  years. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Servin,  "can  you  save  him?" 

"I  can  avenge  him." 

Ginevra  was  thrilled.  Though  the  stranger  was  hand- 
some, his  appearance  had  not  moved  her.  The  gentle  pity 
that  women  find  in  their  heart  for  suffering  which  is  not 
ignoble  had,  in  Ginevra,  stifled  every  other  emotion;  but 
to  hear  a  cry  of  revenge,  to  find  in  this  fugitive  an  Italian 
soul  and  Corsican  magnanimity!  This  was  too  much  for 
her;  she  gazed  at  the  officer  with  respectful  emotion,  which 
powerfully  stirred  her  heart.  It  was  the  first  time  a  man 
had  ever  made  her  feel  so  strongly.  Like  all  women,  it 
pleased  her  to  imagine  that  the  soul  of  this  stranger  must 
be  in  harmony  with  the  remarkable  beauty  of  his  features 
and  the  fine  proportions  of  his  figure,  which  she  admired 
as  an  artist.  Led  by  chance  curiosity  to  pity,  from  pity  to 
eager  interest,  she  now  from  interest  had  reached  sensations 
so  strong  and  deep  that  she  thought  it  rash  to  remain  there 
any  longer. 


208  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Till  to-morrow,"  she  said,  leaving  her  sweetest  smile 
with  the  officer,  to  console  him. 

As  he  saw  that  smile,  which  threw  a  new  light,  as  it 
were,  on  Ginevra's  face,  the  stranger  for  a  moment  forgot 
all  else. 

"To-morrow,"  he  repeated  sadly.  "To-morrow,  Labe'- 
doy&re — ' ' 

Ginevra  turned  to  him  and  laid  a  finger  on  her  lips, 
looking  at  him  as  though  she  would  say,  "Be  calm,  be 
prudent. ' ' 

Then  the  young  man  exclaimed:  "0  Diof  Chi  non 
vorrei  vivere  dopo  averla  veduta!"  "0  God!  who  would 
not  live  after  having  seen  her!"  The  peculiar  accent  with 
which  he  spoke  the  words  startled  Ginevra. 

"You  are  a  CorsicanI"  she  exclaimed,  coming  back  to 
him,  her  heart  beating  with  gladness. 

"I  was  born  in  Corsica,"  he  replied;  "but  I  was  taken 
to  Genoa  when  very  young;  and,  as  soon  as  I  was  of  an 
age  to  enter  the  army,  I  enlisted." 

The  stranger's  handsome  person,  the  transcendent  charm 
he  derived  from  his  attachment  to  the  Emperor,  his  wound, 
his  misfortunes,  even  his  danger,  all  vanished  before  Gi- 
nevra's eyes,  or  rather  all  were  fused  in  one  new  and  ex- 
quisite sentiment.  This  refugee  was  a  son  of  Corsica,  and 
spoke  its  beloved  tongue.  In  a  minute  the  girl  stood  mo- 
tionless, spellbound  by  a  magical  sensation.  She  saw  be- 
fore her  eyes  a  living  picture  tc  which  a  combination  of 
human  feeling  and  chance  lent  dazzling  hues.  At  Ser- 
vin's  invitation  the  officer  had  taken  his  seat  on  an  otto- 
man, the  painter  had  untied  the  string  which  supported 
his  guest's  arm,  and  was  now  undoing  the  bandages  in 
order  to  dress  the  wound.  Ginevra  shuddered  as  she  saw 
the  long  wide  gash,  made  by  a  sabre-cut,  on  the  young 
man's  forearm,  and  gave  a  little  groan.  The  stranger 
looked  up  at  her  and  began  to  smile.  There  was  some- 
thing very  touching  that  went  to  the  soul  in  Servin's  at- 
tentive care  as  he  removed  the  lint  and  touched  the  tender 


THE    VENDETTA  209 

tiesh,  while  the  wounded  man's  face,  though  pale  and  sickly, 
expressed  pleasure  rather  than  suffering  as  he  looked  at  the 
young  girl. 

An  artist  could  not  help  admiring  the  antithesis  of  senti- 
ments, and  the  contrast  of  color  between  the  whiteness  of 
the  linen  and  the  bare  arm  and  the  officer's  blue  and  red 
coat.  Soft  dusk  had  now  fallen  on  the  studio,  but  a  last 
sunbeam  shone  in  on  the  spot  where  the  refugee  was  sit- 
ting, in  such  a  way  that  his  pale,  noble  face,  his  black 
hair,  his  uniform  were  all  flooded  with  light.  This  simple 
effect  the  superstitious  Italian  took  for  an  omen  of  good 
luck.  The  stranger  seemed  to  her  a  celestial  messenger 
who  had  spoken  to  her  in  the  language  of  her  native  land, 
and  put  her  under  the  spell  of  childish  memories;  while  in 
her  heart  a  feeling  had  birth  as  fresh  and  pure  as  her  first 
age  of  innocence.  In  a  very  short  instant  she  stood  pen- 
sive, lost  in  infinite  thought;  then  she  blushed  to  have 
betrayed  her  absence  of  mind,  exchanged  a  swift,  sweet 
look  with  the  officer,  and  made  her  escape,  seeing  him  still. 

The  next  day  there  was  no  painting  lesson;  Grinevra 
could  come  to  the  studio,  and  the  prisoner  could  be  with 
his  fellow-countrywoman.  Servin,  who  had  a  sketch  to 
finish,  allowed  the  officer  to  sit  there  while  he  played 
guardian  to  the  two  young  people  who  frequently  spoke 
in  Corsican.  The  poor  soldier  told  of  his  sufferings  dur- 
ing the  retreat  from  Moscow;  for,  at  the  age  of  nineteen, 
he  had  found  himself  at  the  passage  of  the  Beresina,  alone 
of  all  his  regiment,  having  lost  in  his  comrades  the  only 
men  who  could  care  for  him,  an  orphan.  He  described,  in 
words  of  fire,  the  great  disaster  of  Waterloo. 

His  voice  was  music  to  the  Italian  girl.  Brought  up  in 
Corsican  ways,  Ginevra  was,  to  some  extent,  a  child  of  na- 
ture; falsehood  was  unknown  to  her,  and  she  gave  herself 
up  without  disguise  to  her  impressions,  owning  them,  or 
rather  letting  them  be  seen  without  the  trickery,  the  mean 
and  calculating  vanity  of  the  Parisian  girl.  During  this 
day  she  remained  more  than  once,  her  palette  in  one  hand, 


210  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

a  brush  in  the  other,  while  the  brush  was  undipped  in  the 
colors  on  the  palette;  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  officer's  face, 
her  lips  slightly  parted,  she  sat  listening,  ready  to  lay  on 
the  touch  which  was  not  given.  She  was  not  surprised  to 
find  such  sweetness  in  the  young  man's  eyes,  for  she  felt 
her  own  soften  in  spite  of  her  determination  to  keep  them 
severe  and  cold.  Thus,  for  hours,  she  painted  with  reso- 
lute attention,  not  raising  her  head  because  he  was  there 
watching  her  work.  The  first  time  he  sat  down  to  gaze  at 
her  in  silence,  she  said  to  him  in  an  agitated  voice,  after 
a  long  pause,  "Does  it  amuse  you,  then,  to  look  on  at 
painting  ? ' ' 

That  day  she  learned  that  his  name  was  Luigi.  Before 
they  parted  it  was  agreed  that  if  any  important  political 
events  should  occur  on  the  days  when  the  studio  was  open, 
Ginevra  was  to  inform  him  by  singing  in  an  undertone  cer- 
tain Italian  airs. 

On  the  following  day  Mademoiselle  Thirion  informed  all 
her  companions,  as  a  great  secret,  that  Grinevra  di  Piombo 
had  a  lover — a  young  man  who  came  during  the  hours  de- 
voted to  lessons — to  hide  in  the  dark  closet  of  the  studio. 

"You,  who  take  her  part,"  said  she  to  Mademoiselle 
Boguin,  "watch  her  well,  and  you  will  see  how  she  spends 
her  time." 

So  G-inevra  was  watched  with  diabolical  vigilance.  Her 
songs  were  listened  to,  her  glances  spied.  At  moments 
when  she  believed  that  no  one  saw  her,  a  dozen  eyes  were 
incessantly  centred  on  her.  And  being  forewarned,  the 
girls  interpreted  in  their  true  sense  the  agitations  which 
passed  across  the  Italian's  radiant  face,  and  her  snatches 
of  song,  and  the  attention  with  which  she  listened  to  the 
muffled  sounds  which  she  alone  could  hear  through 
the  partition. 

By  the  end  of  a  week,  only  Laure,  of  the  fifteen  stu- 
dents, had .  resisted  the  temptation  to  scrutinize  Louis 
through  the  crack  in  the  panel,  or,  by  an  instinct  of 
weakness,  still  defended  the  beautiful  Corsican  girl.  Mad- 


THE    VENDETTA  211 

emoiselle  Roguin  wanted  to  make  her  wait  on  the  stairs  at 
the  hour  when  they  all  left,  to  prove  to  her  the  intimacy 
between  Ginevra  and  the  handsome  young  man,  by  finding 
them  together;  but  she  refused  to  condescend  to  an  espio- 
nage which  curiosity  could  not  justify,  and  thus  became  an 
object  of  general  reprobation. 

Ere  long  the  daughter  of  the  Gentleman-usher  thought  it 
unbecoming  in  her  to  work  in  the  studio  of  a  painter  whose 
opinions  were  tainted  with  patriotism  or  Bonapartism — which 
at  that  time  were  regarded  as  one  and  the  same  thing ;  so  she 
came  no  more  to  Servin's.  Though  Amelie  forgot  Ginevra, 
the  evil  she  had  sown  bore  fruit.  Insensibly,  by  chance,  for 
gossip,  or  out  of  prudery,  the  other  damsels  informed  their 
mothers  of  the  strange  adventure  in  progress  at  the  studio. 
One  day  Mathilde  Roguin  did  not  come;  the  next  time 
another  was  absent;  at  last  the  three  or  four  pupils,  who 
had  still  remained,  came  no  more.  Ginevra  and  her  little 
friend,  Mademoiselle  Laure,  were  for  two  or  three  days  the 
sole  occupants  of  the  deserted  studio. 

The  Italian  did  not  observe  the  isolation  in  which  she 
was  left,  and  did  not  even  wonder  at  the  cause  of  her  com- 
panions' absence.  Having  devised  the  means  of  communi- 
cating with  Louis,  she  lived  in  the  studio  as  in  a  delightful 
retreat,  secluded  in  the  midst  of  the  world,  thinking  only  of 
the  officer,  and  of  the  dangers  which  threatened  him.  This 
young  creature,  though  sincerely  admiring  those  noble  char- 
acters who  would  not  be  false  to  their  political  faith,  urged 
Louis  to  submit  at  once  to  royal  authority,  in  order  to  keep 
him  in  France,  while  Louis  refused  to  submit,  that  he  might 
not  have  to  leave  his  hiding-place. 

If,  indeed,  passions  only  have  their  birth  and  grow  up 
under  the  influence  of  romantic  causes,  never  had  so  many 
circumstances  concurred  to  link  two  beings  by  one  feeling. 
Ginevra's  regard  for  Louis,  and  his  for  her,  thus  made 
greater  progress  in  a  month  than  a  fashionable  friendship 
can  make  in  ten  years  in  a  drawing-room.  Is  not  adversity 
the  touchstone  of  character?  Hence  Ginevra  could  really 


212  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

appreciate  Louis,  and  know  him,  and  they  soon  felt  a  re- 
ciprocal esteem.  Ginevra,  who  was  older  than  Louis,  found 
it  sweet  to  be  courted  by  a  young  man  already  so  great,  so 
tried  by  fortune,  who  united  the  experience  of  a  man  with 
the  graces  of  youth.  Louis,  on  his  part,  felt  unspeakable 
delight  in  allowing  himself  to  be  apparently  protected  by  a 
girl  of  five-and-twenty.  Was  it  not  a  proof  of  love  ?  The 
union  in  Ginevra  of  pride  and  sweetness,  of  strength  and 
weakness,  had  an  irresistible  charm;  Louis  was  indeed  com- 
pletely her  slave.  In  short,  they  were  already  so  deeply  in 
love  that  they  felt  no  need  either  to  deny  it  to  themselves 
nor  to  tell  it. 

One  day,  toward  evening,  Ginevra  heard  the  signal  agreed 
on — Louis  tapped  on  the  woodwork  with  a  pin,  so  gently  as 
to  make  no  more  noise  than  a  spider  attaching  its  thread — 
thus  asking  if  he  might  come  out.  She  glanced  round  the 
studio,  did  not  see  little  Laure,  and  answered  the  summons; 
but  as  the  door  was  opened,  Louis  caught  sight  of  the  girl, 
and  hastily  retreated.  Ginevra,  much  surprised,  looked 
about  her,  saw  Laure,  and  going  up  to  her  easel,  said, 
"You  are  staying  very  late,  dear.  And  that  head  seems 
to  me  finished;  there  is  only  a  reflected  light  to  put  in  on 
that  lock  of  hair." 

"It  would  be  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Laure,  in  a  tremu- 
lous voice,  "if  you  would  correct  this  copy  for  me;  I  should 
have  something  of  your  doing  to  keep." 

"Of  course  I  will,"  said  Ginevra,  sure  of  thus  dismissing 
her.  "I  thought,"  she  added,  as  she  put  in  a  few  light 
touches,  "that  you  had  a  long  way  to  go  home  from  the 
studio." 

"Oh!  Ginevra,  I  am  going  away  for  good,"  cried  the 
girl,  sadly. 

"You  are  leaving  Monsieur  Servin?"  asked  the  Italian, 
not  seeming  affected  by  her  words,  as  she  would  have  been 
a  month  since. 

"Have  you  not  noticed,  Ginevra,  that  for  some  time  there 
has  been  nobody  here  but  you  and  me?" 


THE    VENDETTA  213 

"It  is  true,"  replied  Ginevra,  suddenly  struck  as  by  a 
reminiscence.  ' '  Are  they  ill,  or  going  to  be  married,  or  are 
all  their  fathers  employed  now  at  the  palace  ?" 

"They  have  all  left  Monsieur  Servin,"  said  Laure. 

"And  why?" 

"On  your  account,  Ginevra." 

"Minel"  repeated  the  Corsican,  rising,  with  a  threatening 
brow,  and  a  pro  ad  sparkle  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  do  not  be  angry,  dear  Ginevra,"  Laure  piteously 
exclaimed.  "But  my  mother  wishes  that  1  should  leave 
too.  All  the  young  ladies  said  that  you  had  an  intrigue; 
that  Monsieur  Servin  had  lent  himself  to  allowing  a  young 
man  who  loves  you  to  stay  in  the  dark  closet;  but  I  never 
believed  these  calumnies,  and  did  not  tell  my  mother.  Last 
evening  Madame  Eoguin  met  my  mother  at  a  ball,  and  asked 
her  whether  she  still  sent  me  here.  When  mamma  said  Yes, 
she  repeated  all  those  girls'  tales.  Mamma  scolded  me  well; 
she  declared  I  must  have  known  it  all,  and  that  I  had  failed 
in  the  confidence  of  a  daughter  in  her  mother  by  not  telling 
her.  Oh,  my  dear  Ginevra,  I,  who  always  took  you  for  my 
model,  how  grieved  I  am  not  to  be  allowed  to  stay  on  with 
you-" 

"We  shall  meet  again  in  the  world;  young  women  get 
married,"  said  Ginevra. 

"When  they  are  rich,"  replied  Laure. 

"Come  to  see  me,  my  father  has  wealth — " 

"Ginevra,"  Laure  went  on,  much  moved,  "Madame  Ro- 
guin  and  my  mother  are  coming  to-morrow  to  see  Monsieur 
Servin,  and  complain  of  his  conduct.  At  least  let  him  be 
prepared. ' ' 

A  thunderbolt  falling  at  her  feet  would  have  astonished 
Ginevra  less  than  this  announcement. 

"What  could  it  matter  to  them?"  she  innocently  asked. 

"Every  one  thinks  it  very  wrong.  Mamma  says  it  is 
quite  improper." 

"And  you,  Laure,  what  do  you  think  about  it?" 

The  girl  looked  at  Ginevra,  and  their  hearts  met.     Laure 


214  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

could  no  longer  restrain  her  tears;  she  threw  herself  on  her 
friend's  neck  and  kissed  her.  At  this  moment  Servin 
came  in. 

"Mademoiselle  Ginevra,"  he  said,  enthusiastically,  "I 
have  finished  my  picture,  it  is  being  varnished. — But  what 
is  the  matter  ?  All  the  young  ladies  are  making  holiday,  it 
would  seem,  or  are  gone  into  the  country. ' ' 

Laure  wiped  away  her  tears,  took  leave  of  Servin,  and 
went  away. 

"The  studio  has  been  deserted  for  some  days,"  said 
Ginevra,  "and  those  young  ladies  will  return  no  more." 

"Pooh!" 

"Nay,  do  not  laugh,"  said  Ginevra,  "listen  to  me.  I  am 
the  involuntary  cause  of  your  loss  of  repute." 

The  artist  smiled,  and  said,  interrupting  his  pupil,  "My 
repute?  But  in  a  few  days  my  picture  will  be  exhibited." 

"It  is  not  your  talent  that  is  in  question,"  said  the  Italian 
girl;  "but  your  morality.  The  young  ladies  have  spread  a 
report  that  Louis  is  shut  up  here,  and  that  you — lent  your- 
self to  our  love-making. ' ' 

"There  is  some  truth  in  that,  Mademoiselle,"  replied  the 
professor.  "The  girls'  mothers  are  airified  prudes,"  he  went 
on.  "If  they  had  but  come  to  me,  everything  would  have 
been  explained.  But  what  do  I  care  for  such  things?  Life 
is  too  short  I" 

And  the  painter  snapped  his  fingers  in  the  air. 

Louis,  who  had  heard  part  of  the  conversation,  came  out 
of  his  cupboard. 

"You  are  losing  all  your  pupils,"  he  cried,  "and  I  shall 
have  been  your  ruin!" 

The  artist  took  his  hand  and  Ginevra's,  and  joined  them. 
"Will  you  marry  each  other,  my  children?"  he  asked,  with 
touching  bluntness.  They  both  looked  down,  and  their 
silence  was  their  first  mutual  confession  of  love.  ""Well," 
said  Servin,  "and  you  will  be  happy,  will  you  not?  Can 
anything  purchase  such  happiness  as  that  of  two  beings  like 
you?" 


THE    VENDETTA  215 

"I  am  rich,"  said  Ginevra,  "if  you  will  allow  me  to 

indemnify  you — " 

"Indemnify!"  Servin  broke  in.  "Why,  as  soon  as  it  is 
known  that  I  have  been  the  victim  of  a  few  little  fools,  and 
that  I  have  sheltered  a  fugitive,  all  the  Liberals  in  Paris  will 
send  me  their  daughters!  Perhaps  I  shall  be  in  your  debt 
then." 

Louis  grasped  his  protector's  hand,  unable  to  speak  a 
word;  but  at  last  he  said,  in  a  broken  voice,  "To  you  I 
shall  owe  all  my  happiness." 

"Be  happy;  I  unite  you,"  said  the  painter  with  comic 
unction,  laying  his  hands  on  the  heads  of  the  lovers. 

This  pleasantry  put  an  end  to  their  emotional  mood. 
They  looked  at  each  other,  and  all  three  laughed.  The 
Italian  girl  wrung  Louis's  hand  with  a  passionate  grasp, 
and  with  a  simple  impulse  worthy  of  her  Corsican  tradi- 
tions. 

"Ah,  but,  my  dear  children,"  said  Servin,  "you  fancy 
that  now  everything  will  go  on  swimmingly?  Well,  you 
are  mistaken."  They  looked  at  him  in  amazement. 

"Do  not  be  alarmed;  I  am  the  only  person  inconvenienced 
by  your  giddy  behavior.  But  Madame  Servin  is  the  pink 
of  propriety,  and  I  really  do  not  know  how  we  shall  settle 
matters  with  her." 

"Heavens !  I  had  forgotten.  To-morrow  Madame  Roguin 
and  Laure's  mother  are  coming  to  you — " 

"I  understand!"  said  the  painter,  interrupting  her. 

"But  you  can  justify  yourself,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  toss 
of  her  head  of  emphatic  pride.  "Monsieur  Louis,"  and  she 
turned  to  him  with  an  arch  look,  "has  surely  no  longer  an 
antipathy  for  the  King's  Government? — Well,  then,"  she 
went  on,  after  seeing  him  smile,  "to-morrow  morning  I  shall 
address  a  petition  to  one  of  the  most  influential  persons  at 
the  Ministry  of  War,  a  man  who  can  refuse  the  Baron  di 
Piombo's  daughter  nothing.  We  will  obtain  a  tacit  pardon 
for  Captain  Louis — for  they  will  not  recognize  your  grade  as 
Colonel.  And  you,"  she  added,  speaking  to  Servin,  "may 


216  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

annihilate  the  mammas  of  my  charitable  young  companions 
by  simply  telling  them  the  truth." 

"You  are  an  angel!"  said  Servin. 

While  this  scene  was  going  on  at  the  studio,  OHnevra's 
father  and  mother  were  impatiently  expecting  her  return. 

"It  is  six  o'clock,  and  Grinevra  is  not  yet  home,"  said 
Bartolomeo. 

"She  was  never  so  late  before,"  replied  his  wife. 

The  old  people  looked  at  each  other  with  all  the  signs  of 
very  unusual  anxiety.  Bartolomeo,  too  much  excited  to  sit 
still,  rose  and  paced  the  room  twice,  briskly  enough  for  a 
man  of  seventy-seven.  Thanks  to  a  strong  constitution,  he 
bad  changed  but  little  since  the  day  of  his  arrival  at  Paris, 
and  tall  as  he  was,  he  was  still  upright.  His  hair,  thin  and 
white  now,  had  left  his  head  bald,  a  broad  and  bossy  skull 
which  gave  token  of  great  strength  and  firmness.  His  face, 
deeply  furrowed,  had  grown  full  and  wide,  with  the  pale 
complexion  that  inspires  veneration.  The  fire  of  a  passion- 
ate nature  still  lurked  in  the  unearthly  glow  of  his  eyes, 
and  the  brows,  which  were  not  quite  white,  preserved  their 
terrible  mobility.  The  aspect  of  the  man  was  severe,  but  it 
could  be  seen  that  Bartolomeo  had  the  right  to  be  so.  His 
kindness  and  gentleness  were  known  only  to  his  wife  and 
daughter.  In  his  official  position,  or  before  strangers,  he 
never  set  aside  the  majesty  which  time  had  lent  to  his  ap- 
pearance; and  his  habit  of  knitting  those  thick  brows,  of 
setting  every  line  in  his  face,  and  assuming  a  Napoleonic 
fixity  of  gaze,  made  him  seem  as  cold  as  marble. 

In  the  course  of  his  political  life  he  had  been  so  generally 
feared  that  he  was  thought  unsociable ;  but  it  is  not  difficult 
to  find  the  causes  of  such  a  reputation.  Piombo's  life,  hab- 
its, and  fidelity  were  a  censure  on  most  of  the  courtiers. 
Notwithstanding  the  secret  missions  intrusted  to  his  discre- 
tion, which  to  any  other  man  would  have  proved  lucrative, 
he  had  not  more  than  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year  in  Gov- 
ernment securities.  And  when  we  consider  the  low  price  of 
stock  under  the  Empire,  and  Napoleon's  liberality  to  those 


THE    VENDETTA  217 

of  his  faithful  adherents  who  knew  how  to  ask,  it  is  easy  to 
perceive  that  the  Baron  di  Piombo  was  a  man  of  stern  hon- 
esty; he  owed  his  Baron's  plumage  only  to  the  necessity  of 
bearing  a  t'tle  when  sent  by  Napoleon  to  a  foreign  Court. 

Bartolc  meo  had  always  professed  implacable  hatred  of  the 
traitors  wkom  Napoleon  had  gathered  about  him,  believing  he 
could  win  them  over  by  his  victories.  It  was  he — so  it  was 
said — who  took  three  steps  toward  the  door  of  the  Emperor's 
room,  after  advising  him  to  get  rid  of  three  men  then  in 
France,  on  the  day  before  he  set  out  on  his  famous  and  bril- 
liant campaign  of  1814.  Since  the  second  return  of  the  Bour- 
bons, Bartolomeo  had  ceased  to  wear  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor.  No  man  ever  offered  a  finer  image  of  the  old  Re- 
publicans, the  incorruptible  supporters  of  the  Empire,  who 
survived  as  the  living  derelicts  of  the  two  most  vigorous 
Governments  the  world  has  perhaps  ever  seen.  If  Baron 
di  Piombo  had  displeased  some  courtiers,  Daru,  Drouot, 
Carnot  were  his  friends.  And,  indeed,  since  Waterloo,  he 
cared  no  more  about  other  political  figures  than  for  the 
pu5s  of  smoke  he  blew  from  his  cigar. 

With  the  moderate  sum  which  Madame,  Napoleon's 
mother,  had  paid  him  for  his  estates  in  Corsica,  Bartolo- 
meo di  Piombo  had  acquired  the  old  Hotel  de  Portendu&re, 
in  which  he  made  no  alterations.  Living  almost  always  in 
official  residences  at  the  cost  of  the  Government,  he  had  re- 
sided in  this  mansion  only  since  the  catastrophe  of  Fontaine- 
bleau.  Like  all  simple  folk  of  lofty  character,  the  Baron  and 
his  wife  cared  nothing  for  external  splendor;  they  still  used 
the  old  furniture  they  had  found  in  the  house.  The  recep- 
tion rooms  of  this  dwelling,  lofty,  gloomy,  and  bare,  the 
huge  mirrors  set  in  old  gilt  frames  almost  black  with  age, 
the  furniture  from  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.,  were  in  keeping 
with  Bartolomeo  and  his  wife — figures  worthy  of  antiquity. 
Under  the  Empire,  and  during  the  Hundred  Days,  while 
holding  offices  that  brought  handsome  salaries,  the  old  Cor- 
sican  had  kept  house  in  grand  style,  but  rather  to  do  honor 
to  his  position  than  with  a  view  to  display. 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC— 10 


218  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

His  life,  and  that  of  his  wife  and  daughter,  were  so  frugal, 
so  quiet,  that  their  modest  fortune  sufficed  for  their  needs. 
To  them  their  child  Ginevra  outweighed  all  the  riches  on 
earth.  And  when,  in  May,  1814,  Baron  di  Piombo  resigned 
his  place,  dismissed  his  household,  and  locked  his  stable- 
doors,  Ginevra,  as  simple  and  unpretentious  as  her  parents, 
had  not  a  regret.  Like  all  great  souls,  she  found  luxury 
in  strength  of  feeling,  as  she  sought  happiness  in  solitude 
and  work. 

And  these  three  loved  each  other  too  much  for  the  ex- 
ternals of  life  to  have  any  value  in  their  eyes.  Often — and 
especially  since  Napoleon's  second  and  fearful  fall — Bartolo- 
meo  and  his  wife  spent  evenings  of  pure  delight  in  listening 
to  Ginevra  as  she  played  the  piano  or  sang.  To  them  there 
was  an  immense  mystery  of  pleasure  in  their  daughter's  pres- 
ence, in  her  lightest  word;  they  followed  her  with  their  eyes 
with  tender  solicitude;  they  heard  her  step  in  the  courtyard, 
however  lightly  she  trod.  Like  lovers,  they  would  all  three 
sit  silent  for  hours,  hearing,  better  than  in  words,  the  elo- 
quence of  each  other's  soul.  This  deep  feeling,  the  very 
life  of  the  two  old  people,  filled  all  their  thoughts.  Not 
three  lives  were  here,  but  one,  which,  like  the  flame  on  a 
hearth,  burned  up  in  three  tongues  of  fire. 

Though  now  and  then  memories  of  Napoleon's  bounty 
and  misfortunes,  or  the  politics  of  the  day,  took  the  place 
of  their  constant  preoccupation,  they  could  talk  of  them 
without  breaking  their  community  of  thought.  For  did 
not  Ginevra  share  their  political  passions?  What  could 
be  more  natural  than  the  eagerness  with  which  they  with- 
drew into  the  heart  of  their  only  child?  Until  now  the 
business  of  public  life  had  absorbed  Baron  di  Piombo's 
energies;  but  in  resigning  office  the  Corsican  felt  the  need 
of  throwing  his  energy  into  the  last  feeling  that  was  left  to 
him;  and,  besides  the  tie  that  bound  a  father  and  mother 
to  their  daughter,  there  was  perhaps,  unknown  to  these  three 
despotic  spirits,  a  powerful  reason  in  the  fanaticism  of  their 
reciprocal  devotion;  their  love  was  undivided;  Ginevra's 


THE    VENDETTA  219 

whole  heart  was  given  to  her  father,  as  Piombo's  was  to 
her;  and  certainly,  if  it  is  true  that  we  are  more  closely  at- 
tached to  one  another  by  our  faults  than  by  our  good  quali- 
ties, Ginevra  responded  wonderfully  to  all  her  father's  pas- 
sions. Herein  lay  the  single  defect  of  this  threefold  ex- 
istence. Ginevra  was  wholly  given  over  to  her  vindictive 
impulses,  carried  away  by  them,  as  Bartolomeo  had  been 
in  his  youth. 

The  Corsican  delighted  in  encouraging  these  savage  emo- 
tions in  his  daughter's  heart,  exactly  as  a  lion  teaches  his 
whelps  to  spring  on  their  prey.  But  as  this  apprenticeship 
to  revenge  could  only  be  carried  out  under  the  parental  roof, 
Ginevra  never  forgave  her  father  anything;  he  always  had 
to  succumb.  Piombo  regarded  these  factitious  quarrels  as 
mere  childishness,  but  the  child  thus  acquired  a  habit  of 
domineering  over  her  parents.  In  the  midst  of  these  tem- 
pests which  Bartolomeo  loved  to  raise,  a  tender  word,  a 
look,  was  enough  to  soothe  their  angry  spirits,  and  they 
were  never  so  near  kissing  as  when  threatening  wrath. 

However,  from  the  age  of  about  five,  Ginevra,  growing 
wiser  than  her  father,  constantly  avoided  these  scenes.  Her 
faithful  nature,  her  devotion,  the  affection  which  governed 
all  her  thoughts,  and  her  admirable  good  sense,  had  got  the 
better  of  her  rages;  still  a  great  evil  had  resulted:  Ginevra 
lived  with  her  father  and  mother  on  a  footing  of  equality 
which  is  always  disastrous. 

To  complete  the  picture  of  all  the  changes  that  had  hap- 
pened to  these  three  persons  since  their  arrival  in  Paris, 
Piombo  and  his  wife,  people  of  no  education,  had  allowed 
Ginevra  to  study  as  she  would.  Following  her  girlish  fancy, 
she  had  tried  and  given  up  everything,  returning  to  each 
idea,  and  abandoning  each  in  turn,  until  painting  had  be- 
come her  ruling  passion;  she  would  have  been  perfect  if  her 
mother  had  been  capable  of  directing  her  studies,  of  enlight- 
ening and  harmonizing  her  natural  gifts.  Her  faults  were 
the  outcome  of  the  pernicious  training  that  the  old  Corsican 
had  delighted  to  give  her. 


220  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

After  making  the  floor  creak  for  some  minutes  under  his 
feet,  the  old  man  rang  the  bell.  A  servant  appeared. 

"Go  to  meet  Mademoiselle  Ginevra, "  said  the  master. 

"I  have  always  been  sorry  that  we  have  no  longer  a  car- 
riage for  her, ' '  said  the  Baroness. 

"She  would  not  have  one,"  replied  Piombo,  looking  at 
his  wife ;  and  she,  accustomed  for  twenty  years  to  obedienc . 
as  her  part,  cast  down  her  eyes. 

Tall,  thin,  pale,  and  wrinkled,  and  now  past  seventy,  the 
Baroness  was  exactly  like  the  old  woman  whom  Schnetz  in- 
troduces into  the  Italian  scenes  of  his  genre-pictures;  she 
commonly  sat  so  silent  that  she  might  have  been  taken  foi 
a  second  Mrs.  Shandy;  but  a  word,  a  look,  a  gesture  would 
betray  that  her  feelings  had  all  the  vigor  and  freshness  of 
youth.  Her  dress,  devoid  of  smartness,  was  often  devoid 
of  taste.  She  usually  remained  passive,  sunk  in  an  arm- 
chair, like  a  Sultana  valideh,  waiting  for,  or  admiring, 
Ginevra — her  pride  and  life.  Her  daughter's  beauty,  dress, 
and  grace  seemed  to  have  become  her  own.  All  was  well 
with  her  if  Ginevra  were  content.  Her  hair  had  turned 
white,  and  a  few  locks  were  visible  above  her  furrowed  brow, 
and  at  the  side  of  her  withered  cheeks. 

"For  about  a  fortnight  now,"  said  she,  "Ginevra  has  been 
coming  in  late." 

"Jean  will  not  go  fast  enough,"  cried  the  impatient  old 
man,  crossing  over  the  breast  of  his  blue  coat;  he  snatched 
up  his  hat,  crammed  it  on  to  his  head,  and  was  off. 

"You  will  not  get  far,"  his  wife  called  after  him. 

In  fact,  the  outer  gate  opened  and  shut,  and  the  old  mother 
heard  Ginevra  s  steps  in  the  courtyard.  Bartolomeo  suddenly 
reappeared,  carrying  his  daughter  in  triumph,  while  she  strug- 
gled in  his  arms. 

"Here  she  is!  La  Ginevra,  la  Ginevrettina,  la  Ginevrina, 
la  Ginevrola,  la  Ginevretta,  la  Ginevra  bella!" 

' '  Father !  you  are  hurting  me ! ' ' 

Ginevra  was  immediately  set  down  with  a  sort  of  respect. 
She  nodded  her  head  with  a  graceful  gesture  to  reassure  her 


THE    VENDETTA  221 

mother,  who  was  alarmed,  and  to  convey  that  it  had  been 
only  an  excuse.  Then  the  Baroness's  pale,  dull  face  re- 
gained a  little  color,  and  even  a  kind  of  cheerfulness. 
Piombo  rubbed  his  hands  together  extremely  hard — the 
most  certain  symptom  of  gladness;  he  had  acquired  the 
habit  at  Court  when  seeing  Napoleon  in  a  rage  with  any 
of  his  generals  or  ministers  who  served  him  ill,  or  who  had 
committed  some  blunder.  When  once  the  muscles  of  his 
face  were  relaxed,  the  smallest  line  in  his  forehead  expressed 
benevolence.  These  two  old  folk  at  this  moment  were  ex- 
actly like  drooping  plants,  which  are  restored  to  life  by  a 
little  water  after  a  long  draught. 

"Dinner,  dinner!"  cried  the  Baron,  holding  out  his  hand 
to  Ginevra,  whom  he  addressed  as  Signora  Piombellina,  an- 
other token  of  good  spirits,  to  which  his  daughter  replied 
with  a  smile. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Piombo,  as  they  rose  from  table,  "do 
you  know  that  your  mother  has  remarked  that  for  a  month 
past  you  have  stayed  at  the  studio  much  later  than  usual  ? 
Painting  before  parents,  it  would  seem." 

"Oh,  dear  father—" 

"Ginevra  is  preparing  some  surprise  for  us,  no  doubt," 
said  the  mother. 

"You  are  going  to  bring  me  a  picture  of  your  painting?" 
cried  the  Corsican,  clapping  his  hands. 

"Yes;  I  arn  very  busy  at  the  studio,"  she  replied. 

"What  ails  you,  Ginevra?  you  are  so  pale,"  asked  her 
mother. 

"No !"  exclaimed  the  girl,  with  a  resolute  gesture.  "No! 
it  shall  never  be  said  that  Ginevra  Piombo  ever  told  a  lie  in 
her  life." 

On  hearing  this  strange  exclamation,  Piombo  and  his  wife 
looked  at  their  daughter  with  surprise. 

"I  love  a  young  man,"  she  added,  in  a  broken  voice. 
Then,  not  daring  to  look  at  her  parents,  her  heavy  eyelids 
drooped  as  if  to  veil  the  fire  in  her  eyes. 

"Is    he    a    prince?"    asked    her    father    ironically;    but 


222  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

his  tone  of  voice  made  both  the  mother  and  daughter 
tremble. 

"No,  father,"  she  modestly  replied,  " he  is  a  young  man 
of  no  fortune — " 

"Then  is  he  so  handsome?" 

"He  is  unfortunate." 

"What  is  he?" 

"As  a  comrade  of  Labe*doyere's  he  was  outlawed,  home- 
less; Servin  hid  him,  and — " 

"Servin  is  a  good  fellow,  and  did  well,"  cried  Piombo. 
"But  you,  daughter,  have  done  ill  to  love  any  man  but  your 
father—" 

"Love  is  not  within  my  control,"  said  Ginevra  gently. 

"I  had  flattered  myself,"  said  her  father,  "that  my  Gi- 
nevra  would  be  faithful  to  me  till  my  death;  that  my  care 
and  her  mother's  would  be  all  she  would  have  known;  that 
our  tenderness  would  never  meet  with  a  rival  affection  in  her 
heart;  that — " 

"Did  I  ever  reproach  you  for  your  fanatical  devotion  to 
Napoleon?"  said  Ginevra.  "Have  you  never  loved  any 
one  but  me  ?  Have  you  not  been  away  on  Embassies  for 
months  at  a  time  ?  Have  I  not  borne  your  absence  bravely  ? 
Life  has  necessities  to  which  we  must  yield. ' ' 

"Ginevra!" 

"No,  you  do  not  love  me  for  my  own  sake,  and  your 
reproaches  show  intolerable  selfishness." 

"And  you  accuse  your  father's  love!"  cried  Piombo  with 
flaming  looks. 

' '  Father,  I  will  never  accuse  you, ' '  replied  Ginevra,  more 
gently  than  her  trembling  mother  expected.  "You  have 
right  on  the  side  of  your  egoism,  as  I  have  right  on  the 
side  of  my  love.  Heaven  is  my  witness  that  no  daughter 
ever  better  fulfilled  her  duty  to  her  parents.  I  have  never 
known  anything  but  love  and  happiness  in  what  many 
daughters  regard  as  obligations.  Now,  for  fifteen  years, 
I  have  never  been  anywhere  but  under  your  protecting 
wing,  and  it  has  been  a  very  sweet  delight  to  me  to  charm 


THE    VENDETTA  223 

your  lives.  But  am  I  then  ungrateful  in  giving  myself  up 
to  the  joy  of  loving,  and  in  wishing  for  a  husband  to  protect 
me  after  you?" 

"So  you  balance  accounts  with  your  father,  Ginevra!" 
said  the  old  man  in  ominous  tones. 

There  was  a  frightful  pause;  no  one  dared  to  speak. 
Finally,  Bartolomeo  broke  the  silence  by  exclaiming  in  a 
heartrending  voice:  "Oh,  stay  with  us;  stay  with  your  old 
father!  I  could  not  bear  to  see  you  love  a  man.  Ginevra, 
you  will  not  have  long  to  wait  for  your  liberty — ' ' 

"But,  my  dear  father,  consider;  we  shall  not  leave  you, 
we  shall  be  two  to  love  you;  you  will  know  the  man  to 
whose  care  you  will  bequeath  me.  You  will  be  doubly 
loved  by  me  and  by  him — by  him,  being  part  of  me,  and 
by  me  who  am  wholly  he." 

"Oh,  Ginevra,  Ginevra!"  cried  the  Corsican,  clinching 
his  fists,  "why  were  you  not  married  when  Napoleon  had 
accustomed  me  to  the  idea,  and  introduced  dukes  and  counts 
as  your  suitors. ' ' 

"They  only  loved  me  to  order,"  said  the  young  girl. 
"Besides,  I  did  not  wish  to  leave  you;  and  they  would  have 
taken  me  away  with  them." 

"You  do  not  wish  to  leave  us  alone,"  said  Piombo,  "but 
if  you  marry  you  isolate  us.  I  know  you,  my  child,  you 
will  love  us  no  more.  Elisa, ' '  he  added,  turning  to  his  wife, 
who  sat  motionless  and,  as  it  were,  stupefied;  "we  no  longer 
have  a  daughter ;  she  wants  to  be  married. ' ' 

The  old  man  sat  down,  after  raising  his  hands  in  the  air 
as  though  to  invoke  God;  then  he  remained  bent,  crushed 
by  his  grief.  Ginevra  saw  her  father's  agitation,  and  the 
moderation  of  his  wrath  pierced  her  to  the  heart;  she  had 
expected  a  scene  and  furies;  she  had  not  steeled  her  soul 
against  his  gentleness. 

"My  dear  father,"  she  said  in  an  appealing  voice,  "no, 
you  shall  never  be  abandoned  by  your  Ginevra.  But  love 
me  too  a  little  for  myself.  If  only  you  knew  how  he  loves 
me!  Ah,  he  could  never  bear  to  cause  me  pain!" 


224  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"What,  comparisons  already!"  cried  Piombo  in  a  terri- 
ble voice.  "No,"  he  went  on,  "I  cannot  endure  the  idea. 
If  he  were  to  love  you  as  you  deserve,  he  would  kill  me; 
and  if  he  were  not  to  love  you,  I  should  stab  him!" 

Piombo's  hands  were  trembling,  his  lips  trembled,  his 
whole  frame  trembled,  and  his  eyes  flashed  lightnings;  Gi- 
nevra  alone  could  meet  his  gaze ;  for  then  her  eyes  too  flashed 
fire,  and  the  daughter  was  worthy  of  the  father. 

"To  love  you!  What  man  is  worthy  of  such  a  life  ?"  he 
went  on.  "To  love  you  as  a  father  even- — is  it  not  to  live  in 
Paradise  ?  Who  then  could  be  worthy  to  be  your  husband  ?" 

"He,"  said  Ginevra.  "He  of  whom  I  feel  myself  un- 
worthy." 

"  He, "  echoed  Piombo  mechanically.     ' '  Who  ?     He  ?  " 

"The  man  I  love." 

"Can  he  know  you  well  enough  already  to  adore  you?" 

"But,  father,"  said  Ginevra,  feeling  a  surge  of  impatience, 
"even  if  he  did  not  love  me — so  long  as  I  love  him — " 

"You  do  love  him  then?"  cried  Piombo.  Ginevra 
gently  bowed  her  head.  "You  love  him  more  than  you 
love  me?" 

"The  two  feelings  cannot  be  compared,"  she  replied. 

"One  is  stronger  than  the  other?"  said  Piombo. 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  said  Ginevra. 

"You  shall  not  marry  him!"  cried  the  Corsican  in  a  voice 
that  made  the  windows  rattle. 

"I  will  marry  him!"  replied  Ginevra  calmly. 

"Good  God!"  cried  the  mother,  "how  will  this  quarrel 
end?  Santa  Virgina,  come  between  them!" 

The  Baron,  who  was  striding  up  and  down  the  room,  came 
and  seated  himself.  An  icy  sternness  darkened  his  face;  he 
looked  steadfastly  at  his  daughter,  and  said  in  a  gentle  and 
affectionate  voice,  "Nay,  Ginevra — you  will  not  marry  him. 
Oh,  do  not  say  you  will,  this  evening.  Let  me  believe  that 
you  will  not.  Do  you  wish  to  see  your  father  on  his  knees 
before  you,  and  his  white  hairs  humbled.  I  will  beseech 
you—" 


THE    VENDETTA  225 

"Ginevra  Piombo  is  not  accustomed  to  promise  and  not 
to  keep  her  word,"  said  she;  "I  am  your  child." 

1 '  She  is  right, ' '  said  the  Baroness,  ' '  we  come  into  the  world 
to  marry." 

"And  so  you  encourage  her  in  disobedience,"  said  the 
Baron  to  his  wife,  who,  stricken  by  the  reproof,  froze  into 
a  statue. 

"It  is  not  disobedience  to  refuse  to  yield  to  an  unjust 
command,"  replied  Ginevra. 

"It  cannot  be  unjust  when  it  emanates  from  your  father's 
lips,  my  child.  Why  do  you  rise  in  judgment  on  me  ?  Is 
not  the  repugnance  I  feel  a  counsel  from  on  High  ?  I  am 
perhaps  saving  you  from  some  misfortune." 

"The  misfortune  would  be  that  he  should  not  love  me." 

"Always  he!" 

"Yes,  always,"  she  said.  "He  is  my  life,  my  joy,  my 
thought.  Even  if  I  obeyed  you,  he  would  be  always  in 
my  heart.  If  you  forbid  me  to  marry  him,  will  it  not 
make  me  hate  you  ? ' ' 

"You  love  us  no  longer!"  cried  Piombo. 

"Oh!"  said  Ginevra,  shaking  her  head. 

"Well,  then,  forget  him.  Be  faithful  to  us.  After  us 
.  .  .  you  understand  ..." 

' '  Father,  would  you  make  me  wish  that  you  were  dead  ? ' ' 
cried  Ginevra. 

"I  shall  outlive  you;  children  who  do  not  honor  their 
parents  die  early,"  cried  her  father  at  the  utmost  pitch  of 
exasperation. 

"All  the  more  reason  for  marrying  soon  and  being 
happy,"  said  she. 

This  coolness,  this  force  of  argument,  brought  Piombo 's 
agitation  to  a  crisis;  the  blood  rushed  violently  to  his  head, 
his  face  turned  purple.  Ginevra  shuddered;  she  flew  like 
a  bird  on  to  her  father's  knees,  threw  her  arms  round  his 
neck,  stroked  his  hair,  and  exclaimed,  quite  overcome: 

' '  Oh,  yes,  let  me  die  first  I  I  could  not  survive  you,  my 
dear,  kind  father." 


226  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Oh.  my  Ginevra,  my  foolish  Ginevretta!"  answered 
Piombo,  whose  rage  melted  ander  this  caress  as  an  icicle 
melts  in  the  sunshine. 

"It  was  time  you  should  put  an  end  to  the  matter,"  said 
the  Baroness  in  a  broken  voice. 

"Poor  mother!" 

"Ah,  Ginevretta,  mia  Ginevra  bella!" 

And  the  father  played  with  his  daughter  as  if  she  were 
a  child  of  six;  he  amused  himself  with  undoing  the  waving 
tresses  of  her  hair  and  dancing  her  on  his  knee;  there  was 
dotage  in  his  demonstrations  of  tenderness.  Presently  his 
daughter  scolded  him  as  she  kissed  him,  and  tried,  half  in 
jest,  to  get  leave  to  bring  Louis  to  the  house;  but,  jesting 
too,  her  father  refused.  She  sulked,  and  recovered  herself, 
and  sulked  again;  then,  at  the  end  of  the  evening,  she  was 
only  too  glad  to  have  impressed  on  her  father  the  ideas  of 
her  love  for  Louis  and  of  a  marriage  ere  long. 

Next  day  she  said  no  more  about  it;  she  went  later  to 
the  studio  and  returned  early;  she  was  more  affectionate 
to  her  father  than  she  had  ever  been,  and  showed  herself 
grateful,  as  if  to  thank  him  for  the  consent  to  her  marriage 
he  seemed  to  give  by  silence.  In  the  evening  she  played 
and  sang  for  a  long  time,  and  exclaimed  now  and  then, 
"This  nocturne  requires  a  man's  voice!"  She  was  an 
Italian,  and  that  says  everything. 

A  week  later  her  mother  beckoned  her;  Ginevra  went, 
and  then  in  her  ear  she  whispered,  "I  have  persuaded  your 
father  to  receive  him." 

"Oh,  mother!  you  make  me  very  happy." 

So  that  afternoon  Ginevra  had  the  joy  of  coming  home 
to  her  father's  house  leaning  on  Louis's  arm.  The  poor 
officer  came  out  of  his  hiding-place  for  the  second  time. 
Ginevra's  active  intervention  addressed  to  the  Due  de 
Feltre,  then  Minister  of  War,  had  been  crowned  with 
perfect  success.  Louis  had  just  been  reinstated  as  an 
officer  on  the  reserve  list.  This  was  a  very  long  step 
toward  a  prosperous  future. 


THE    VENDETTA  227 

Informed  by  Ginevra  of  all  the  difficulties  he  would 
meet  with  in  the  Baron,  the  young  officer  dared  not  con- 
fess his  dread  of  failing  to  please  him.  This  man,  so 
brave  in  adversity,  so  bold  on  the  field  of  battle,  quaked 
as  he  thought  of  entering  the  Piombos'  drawing-room. 
Ginevra  felt  him  tremble,  and  this  emotion,  of  which 
their  happiness  was  the  first  cause,  was  to  her  a  fresh 
proof  of  his  love. 

"How  pale  you  are!"  said  she,  as  they  reached  the  gate 
of  the  hotel. 

"Oh,  Ginevra!     If  my  life  alone  were  at  stake — " 

Though  Bartolomeo  had  been  informed  by  his  wife  of 
this  official  introduction  of  his  daughter's  lover,  he  did  not 
rise  to  meet  him,  but  remained  in  the  armchair  he  usually 
occupied,  and  the  severity  of  his  countenance  was  icy. 

"Father,"  said  Ginevra,  "I  have  brought  you  a  gentle- 
man whom  you  will  no  doubt  be  pleased  to  see.  Monsieur 
Louis,  a  soldier  who  fought  quite  close  to  the  Emperor  at 
Mont-Saint-Jean — ' ' 

The  Baron  rose,  cast  a  furtive  glance  at  Louis,  and  said 
in  a  sardonic  tone: 

"Monsieur  wears  no  orders  ?" 

"I  no  longer  wear  the  Legion  of  Honor,"  replied  Louis 
bashfully,  and  he  humbly  remained  standing. 

Ginevra,  hurt  by  her  father's  rudeness,  brought  forward  a 
chair.  The  officer's  reply  satisfied  the  old  Eepublican.  Ma- 
dame Piombo,  seeing  that  her  husband's  brows  were  recov- 
ering their  natural  shape,  said,  to  revive  the  conversation, 
"Monsieur  is  wonderfully  like  Nina  Porta.  Do  not  you 
think  that  he  has  quite  the  face  of  a  Porta?" 

"Nothing  can  be  more  natural,"  replied  the  young  man, 
on  whom  Piombo 's  flaming  eyes  were  fixed.  "Nina  was  my 
sister. ' ' 

"You  are  Luigi  Porta?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"Yes." 

Bartolomeo  di  Piombo  rose,  tottered,  was  obliged  to  lean 
on  a  chair,  and  looked  at  his  wife.  Blisa  Piombo  came  up 


228  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

to  him;  then  the  two  old  folk  silently  left  the  room,  arm  in 
arm,  with  a  look  of  horror  at  their  daughter.  Luigi  Porta, 
quite  bewildered,  gazed  at  Ginevra,  who  turned  as  white  as 
a  marble  statue,  and  remained  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
door  where  her  father  and  mother  had  disappeared.  There 
was  something  so  solemn  in  her  silence  and  their  retreat, 
that,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  perhaps,  a  feeling  of  fear 
came  over  him.  She  clasped  her  hands  tightly  together, 
and  said  in  a  voice  so  choked  that  it  would  have  been  in- 
audible to  any  one  but  a  lover,  "How  much  woe  in  one 
word!" 

"In  the  name  of  our  love,  what  have  I  said?"  asked 
Luigi  Porta. 

"My  father  has  never  told  me  our  deplorable  history," 
she  replied.  "And  when  we  left  Corsica  I  was  too  young 
to  know  anything  about  it." 

"Is  it  a  Yendetta?"  asked  Luigi,  trembling. 

"Yes.  By  questioning  my  mother  I  learned  that  the 
Porta  had  killed  my  brothers  and  burned  down  our  house. 
My  father  then  massacred  all  your  family.  How  did  you 
survive,  you  whom  he  thought  he  had  tied  to  the  posts  of 
a  bed  before  setting  fire  to  the  house?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  Luigi.  "When  I  was  six  I 
was  taken  to  Genoa,  to  an  old  man  named  Colonna.  No 
account  of  my  family  was  ever  given  to  me;  I  only  knew 
that  I  was  an  orphan,  and  penniless.  Colonna  was  like  a 
father  to  me;  I  bore  his  name  till  I  entered  the  army;  then, 
as  I  needed  papers  to  prove  my  identity,  old  Colonna  told 
me  that,  helpless  as  I  was,  and  hardly  more  than  a  child, 
I  had  enemies.  He  made  me  promise  to  take  the  name  of 
Luigi  only,  to  evade  them." 

"Fly,  fly,  Luigi,"  cried  Ginevra.  "Yet,  stay;  I  must 
go  with  you.  So  long  as  you  are  in  my  father's  house  you 
are  safe.  As  soon  as  you  quit  it,  take  care  of  yourself. 
You  will  go  from  one  danger  to  another.  My  father  has 
two  Corsicans  in  his  service,  and  if  he  does  not  threaten 
your  life  they  will." 


THE    VENDETTA  229 

"Gmevra,"  he  said,  "and  must  this  hatred  exist  be- 
tween us?" 

She  smiled  sadly  and  bowed  her  head.  But  she  soon 
raised  it  again  with  a  sort  of  pride,  and  said,  "Oh,  Luigi, 
our  feelings  must  be  very  pure  and  true  that  I  should  have 
the  strength  to  walk  in  the  path  I  am  entering  on.  But  it 
is  for  the  sake  of  happiness  which  will  last  as  long  as  life, 
is  it  not?" 

Luigi  answered  only  with  a  smile,  and  pressed  her  hand. 
The  girl  understood  that  only  a  great  love  could  at  such  a 
moment  scorn  mere  protestations.  This  calm  and  conscien- 
tious expression  of  Luigi' s  feelings  seemed  to  speak  for  their 
strength  and  permanence.  The  fate  of  the  couple  was  thus 
sealed.  Ginevra  foresaw  many  painful  contests  to  be  fought 
out,  but  the  idea  of  deserting  Louis — an  idea  which  had  per- 
haps floated  before  her  mind — at  once  vanished.  His,  hence- 
forth and  forever,  she  suddenly  dragged  him  away  and  out  of 
the  house  with  a  sort  of  violence,  and  did  not  quit  him  till 
they  reached  the  house  where  Servin  had  taken  a  humble 
lodging  for  him. 

When  she  returned  to  her  father's  house  she  had  as- 
sumed the  serenity  which  comes  of  a  strong  resolve.  No 
change  of  manner  revealed  any  uneasiness.  She  found  her 
parents  ready  to  sit  down  to  dinner,  and  she  looked  at 
them  with  eyes  devoid  of  defiance,  and  full  of  sweetness. 
She  saw  that  her  old  mother  had  been  weeping;  at  the 
sight  of  her  red  eyelids  for  a  moment  her  heart  failed  her, 
but  she  hid  her  emotion.  Piombo  seemed  to  be  a  prey  to 
anguish  too  keen,  too  concentrated  to  be  shown  by  ordinary 
means  of  expression.  The  servants  waited  on  a  meal  which 
no  one  ate.  A  horror  of  food  is  one  of  the  symptoms  indic- 
ative of  a  great  crisis  of  the  soul.  All  three  rose  without 
any  one  of  them  having  spoken  a  word.  When  Ginevra 
was  seated  in  the  great,  solemn  drawing-room  between  her 
father  and  mother,  Piombo  tried  to  speak,  but  he  found  no 
voice;  he  tried  to  walk  about,  but  found  no  strength;  ho 
sat  down  again  and  rang  the  bell. 


230  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Pietro,"  said  he  to  the  servant  at  last,  "light  the  fire,  I 
am  cold. ' ' 

Ginevra  was  shocked,  and  looked  anxiously  at  her  father. 
The  struggle  he  was  going  through  must  be  frightful;  his  face 
looked  quite  changed.  Ginevra  knew  the  extent  of  the  dan- 
ger that  threatened  her,  but  she  did  not  tremble ;  while  the 
glances  that  Bartolomeo  cast  at  his  daughter  seemed  to 
proclaim  that  he  was  at  this  moment  in  fear  of  the  charac- 
ter whose  violence  was  his  own  work.  Between  these  two 
everything  must  be  in  excess.  And  the  certainty  of  the 
possible  change  of  feeling  between  the  father  and  daughter 
filled  the  Baroness's  face  with  an  expression  of  terror. 

"Ginevra,  you  love  the  enemy  of  your  family,"  said 
Piombo  at  last,  not  daring  to  look  at  his  daughter. 

"That  is  true,"  she  replied. 

"You  must  choose  between  him  and  us.  Our  Vendetta 
is  part  of  ourselves.  If  you  do  not  espouse  my  cause,  you 
are  not  of  my  family." 

"My  choice  is  made,"  said  Ginevra,  in  a  steady  voice. 

His  daughter's  calmness  misled  Bartolomeo. 

"Oh,  my  dear  daughter!"  cried  the  old  man,  whose  eye- 
lids were  moist  with  tears,  the  first,  the  only  tears  he  ever 
shed  in  his  life. 

' '  I  shall  be  his  wife, ' '  she  said  abruptly. 

Bartolomeo  could  not  see  for  a  moment ;  but  he  recovered 
himself  and  replied,  "This  marriage  shall  never  be  so  long 
as  I  live.  I  will  never  consent."  Ginevra  kept  silence. 
"But,  do  you  understand,"  the  Baron  went  on,  "that 
Luigi  is  the  son  of  the  man  who  killed  your  brothers  ? ' ' 

' '  He  was  six  years  old  when  the  crime  was  committed  •  he 
must  be  innocent  of  it,"  she  answered. 

"A  Porta!"  cried  Bartolomeo. 

"But  how  could  1  share  this  hatred,"  said  the  girl  eager- 
ly. "Did  you  bring  me  up  in  the  belief  that  a  Porta  was  a 
monster  ?  Could  I  imagine  that  even  one  was  left  of  those 
you  had  killed  ?  Is  it  not  in  nature  that  you  should  make 
your  Vendetta  give  way  to  my  feelings?" 


THE    VENDETTA  231 

"A  Porta?"  repeated  Piombo.  "If  his  father  had  found 
you  then  in  your  bed,  you  would  not  be  alive  now.  He  would 
have  dealt  you  a  hundred  deaths." 

"Possibly,"  she  said.  "But  his  son  has  given  me  more 
than  life.  To  see  Luigi  is  a  happiness  without  which  I  can- 
not live.  Luigi  has  revealed  to  me  the  world  of  feeling.  I 
have,  perhaps,  seen  even  handsomer  faces  than  his,  but  none 
ever  charmed  me  so  much.  I  have,  perhaps,  heard  voices — 
no,  no,  never  one  so  musical!  Luigi  loves  me.  He  shall  be 
rny  husband." 

"Never!"  said  Piombo.  "Ginevra,  I  would  sooner  see 
you  in  your  coffin!" 

The  old  man  rose,  and  paced  the  room  with  hurried 
strides,  uttering  fierce  words,  with  pauses  between  that  be- 
trayed all  his  indignation. 

"You  think,  perhaps,  that  you  can  bend  my  will? 
Undeceive  yourself.  1  will  not  have  a  Porta  for  my  son- 
in-law.  That  is  my  decision.  Never  speak  of  the  matter 
again.  I  am  Bartolomeo  di  Piombo,  do  you  hear,  Ginevra  ?" 

"Do  you  attach  any  mysterious  meaning  to  the  words?" 
she  coldly  asked. 

"They  mean  that  I  have  a  dagger,  and  that  I  do  not 
fear  the  justice  of  men.  We  Corsicans  settle  such  mat- 
ters with  God." 

"Well,"  said  the  girl,  "I  am  Ginevra  di  Piombo,  and  I 
declare  that  in  six  months  I  will  be  Luigi  Porta 's  wife. — 
You  are  a  tyrant,  father,"  she  added,  after  an  ominous 
pause. 

Bartolomeo  clinched  his  fists,  and  struck  the  marble 
chimney-shelf. 

"Ah!  we  are  in  Paris!"  he  muttered. 

He  said  no  more,  but  folded  his  arms  and  bowed  his  head 
on  his  breast;  nor  did  he  say  another  word  the  whole  even- 
ing. Having  asserted  her  will,  the  girl  affected  the  most 
complete  indifference;  she  sat  down,  to  the  piano,  sang, 
played  the  most  charming  music,  with  a  grace  and  feeling 
that  proclaimed  her  perfect  freedom  of  mind,  triumphing 


232  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

over  her  father,  whose  brow  showed  no  relenting.  The  old 
man  deeply  felt  this  tacit  insult,  and  at  that  moment  gath- 
ered the  bitter  fruits  of  the  education  he  had  given  his  daugh- 
ter. Eespect  is  a  barrier  which  protects  the  parents  and  the 
children  alike,  sparing  those  much  sorrow,  and  these  remorse. 

The  next  day,  as  Ginevra  was  going  out  at  the  hour  when 
she  usually  went  to  the  studio,  she  found  the  door  of  the 
house  closed  upon  her;  but  she  soon  devised  means  for 
informing  Luigi  Porta  of  her  father's  severity.  A  waiting- 
woman,  who  could  not  read,  carried  to  the  young  officer  a 
letter  written  by  Ginevra.  For  five  days  the  lovers  con- 
trived to  correspond,  thanks  to  the  plots  that  young  people 
of  twenty  can  always  contrive. 

The  father  and  daughter  rarely  spoke  to  each  other.  Both 
had  in  the  bottom  of  their  hearts  an  element  of  hatred;  they 
suffered,  but  in  pride  and  silence.  Knowing  well  how  strong 
were  the  bonds  of  love  that  tied  them  to  each  other,  they 
tried  to  wrench  them  asunder,  but  without  success.  No 
sweet  emotion  ever  came,  as  it  had  been  wont,  to  give  light 
to  Bartolomeo's  severe  features  when  he  gazed  at  his  Gi- 
nevra, and  there  was  something  savage  in  her  expression 
when  she  looked  at  her  father.  Reproach  sat  on  her  inno- 
cent brow;  she  gave  herself  up,  indeed,  to  thoughts  of  hap- 
piness, but  remorse  sometimes  dimmed  her  eyes.  It  was  not, 
indeed,  difficult  to  divine  that  she  would  never  enjoy  in  peace 
a  felicity  which  made  her  parents  unhappy.  In  Bartolomeo, 
as  in  his  daughter,  all  the  irresolution  arising  from  their  na- 
tive goodness  of  heart  was  doomed  to  shipwreck  on  their 
fierce  pride  and  the  revengeful  spirit  peculiar  to  demeans. 
They  encouraged  each  other  in  their  wrath,  and  shut  their 
eyes  to  the  future.  Perhaps,  too,  each  fancied  that  the  other 
would  yield. 

On  Ginevra 's  birthday,  her  mother,  heart-broken  at  this 
disunion,  which  was  assuming  a  serious  aspect,  planned  to 
reconcile  the  father  and  daughter  by  an  appeal  to  the  memo- 
ries of  this  anniversary.  They  were  all  three  sitting  in  Bar- 
tolomeo's room.  Ginevra  guessed  her  mother's  purpose  from 


THE    VENDETTA  283 

the  hesitation  written  in  her  face,  and  she  smiled  sadly.  At 
this  instant  a  servant  announced  two  lawyers,  accompanied 
by  several  witnesses,  who  all  came  into  the  room.  Bartolo- 
meo  stared  at  the  men,  whose  cold,  set  faces  were  in  them- 
selves an  insult  to  souls  so  fevered  as  those  of  the  three  prin- 
cipal actors  in  this  scene.  The  old  man  turned  uneasily  to 
his  daughter,  and  saw  on  her  face  a  smile  of  triumph  which 
led  him  to  suspect  some  catastrophe;  but  he  affected,  as  sav- 
ages do,  to  preserve  a  deceitful  rigidity,  while  he  looked  at 
the  two  lawyers  with  a  sort  of  apathetic  curiosity.  At  a 
gesture  of  invitation  from  the  old  man  the  visitors  took  seats. 

"Monsieur  is  no  doubt  Baron  di  Piombo?"  said  the  elder 
of  the  two  lawyers. 

Bartolomeo  bowed.  The  lawyer  gave  his  head  a  little 
jerk,  looked  at  Ginevra  with  the  sly  expression  of  a  bailiff 
nabbing  a  debtor;  then  he  took  out  his  snuff-box,  opened  it> 
and,  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff,  absorbed  it  in  little  sniffs  while 
considering  the  opening  words  of  his  discourse;  and  while 
pronouncing  them  he  made  constant  pauses,  an  oratorical 
effect  which  a  dash  in  printing  represents  very  imperfectly. 

"Monsieur,"  said  he,  "I  am  Monsieur  Eoguin,  notary  to 
Mademoiselle,  your  daughter,  and  we  are  here — my  colleague 
and  I — to  carry  out  the  requirements  of  the  law,  and — to  put 
an  end  to  the  divisions  which — as  it  would  seem — have  arisen 
— between  you  and  Mademoiselle,  your  daughter — on  the 
question — of — her — marriage  with  Monsieur  Luigi  Porta. " 
This  speech,  made  in  a  pedantic  style,  seemed,  no  doubt, 
to  Monsieur  Eoguin  much  too  fine  to  be  understood  all  in 
a  moment,  and  he  stopped,  while  looking  at  Bartolomeo  with 
an  expression  peculiar  to  men  of  business,  and  which  is  half- 
way between  servility  and  familiarity.  Lawyers  are  so  much 
used  to  feign  interest  in  the  persons  to  whom  they  speak  that 
their  features  at  last  assume  a  grimace  which  they  can  put  on 
and  off  with  their  official  pallium.  This  caricature  of  friend- 
liness, so  mechanical  as  to  be  easily  detected,  irritated  Barto- 
lomeo to  such  a  pitch  that  it  took  all  his  self-control  not  to 
throw  Monsieur  Eoguin  out  of  the  window;  a  look  of  fury 


234  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

emphasized  his  wrinkles,  and  on  seeing  this  the  notary  said 
to  himself:  "I  am  making  an  effect. " 

"But,"  he  went  on  in  a  honeyed  voice,  "Monsieur  le 
Baron,  on  such  occasions  as  these,  our  intervention  must 
always,  at  first,  be  essentially  conciliatory. — Have  the  kind- 
ness to  listen  to  me. — It  is  in  evidence  that  Mademoiselle 
Ginevra  Piombo — has  to-day — attained  the  age  at  which, 
after  a  'respectful  summons,'  she  may  proceed  to  the  sol- 
emnization of  her  marriage — notwithstanding  that  her  par- 
ents refuse  their  consent.  Now — it  is  customary  in  families 
• — which  enjoy  a  certain  consideration — which  move  in  so- 
ciety— and  preserve  their  dignity — people,  in  short,  to  whom 
it  is  important  not  to  let  the  public  into  the  secret  of  their 
differences — and  who  also  do  not  wish  to  do  themselves 
an  injury  by  blighting  the  future  lives  of  a  young  husband 
and  wife — for  that  is  doing  themselves  an  injury.  It  is  the 
custom,  I  was  saying — in  such  highly  respectable  families 
— not  to  allow  the  serving  of  such  a  summons — which  must 
be — which  always  is  a  record  of  a  dispute — which  at  last 
ceases  to  exist.  For  as  soon,  Monsieur,  as  a  young  lady  has 
recourse  to  a  'respectful  summons'  she  proclaims  a  determi- 
nation so  obstinate — that  her  father — and  her  mother — ' '  he 
added,  turning  to  the  Baroness,  "can  have  no  further  hope 
of  seeing  her  follow  their  advice. — Hence  the  parental  pro- 
hibition being  nullified — in  the  first  place  by  this  fact — and 
also  by  the  decision  of  the  law — it  is  always  the  case  that  a 
wise  father,  after  finally  remonstrating  with  his  child,  allows 
her  the  liberty — " 

Monsieur  Koguin  paused,  perceiving  that  he  might  talk 
on  for  two  hours  without  extracting  an  answer;  and  he  also 
felt  a  peculiar  agitation  as  he  looked  at  the  man  he  was  try- 
ing to  convince.  An  extraordinary  change  had  come  over 
Bartolomeo's  countenance.  All  its  lines  were  set,  giving 
him  an  expression  of  indescribable  cruelty,  and  he  glared 
at  the  lawyer  like  a  tiger.  The  Baroness  sat  mute  and  pas- 
sive. Ginevra,  calm  and  resolute,  was  waiting;  she  knew 
that  the  notary's  voice  was  stronger  than  hers,  and  she 


THE    VENDETTA  235 

seemed  to  have  made  up  her  mind  to  keep  silence.  At  the 
moment  when  Roguin  ceased  speaking,  the  scene  was  so 
terrible  that  the  witnesses,  as  strangers,  trembled;  never, 
perhaps,  had  such  a  silence  weighed  on  them.  The  lawyers 
looked  at  each  other  as  if  in  consultation,  then  they  rose  and 
went  to  the  window. 

"Did  you  ever  come  across  clients  made  to  this  pattern?" 
asked  Roguin  of  his  colleague. 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  got  out  of  him,"  said  the  younger 
man.  "In  your  place  I  should  read  the  summons  and  noth- 
ing more.  The  old  man  is  no  joke;  he  is  choleric,  and  you 
will  gain  nothing  by  trying  to  discuss  matters  with  him. ' ' 

Monsieur  Roguin  therefore  read  aloud  from  a  sheet  of 
stamped  paper  a  summons  ready  drawn  up,  and  coldly  asked 
Bartolomeo  what  his  reply  was. 

"Are  there  laws  in  France  then  that  upset  a  father's  au- 
thority?" asked  the  Corsican. 

"Monsieur-—"  said  Roguin,  smoothly. 

"That  snatch  a  child  from  her  father?" 

"Monsieur — " 

"That  rob  an  old  man  of  his  last  consolation?" 

"Monsieur,  you  daughter  belongs  to  you  only  so  long — " 

"That  kill  her?" 

"Monsieur,  allow  me." 

There  is  nothing  more  hideous  than  the  cold-blooded  and 
close  reasoning  of  a  lawyer  in  the  midst  of  such  scenes  of  pas- 
sion as  they  are  usually  mixed  up  with.  The  faces  which 
Piombo  saw  seemed  to  him  to  have  escaped  from  Hell;  his 
cold  and  concentrated  rage  knew  no  bounds  at  the  moment 
when  his  little  opponent's  calm  and  almost  piping  voice  ut- 
tered that  fatal,  "Allow  me."  He  sprang  at  a  long  dagger 
which  hung  from  a  nail  over  the  chimney-piece,  and  rushed 
at  his  daughter.  The  younger  of  the  two  lawyers  and  one 
of  the  witnesses  threw  themselves  between  him  and  Ginevra; 
but  Bartolomeo  brutally  knocked  them  over,  showing  them 
a  face  of  fire  and  glowing  eyes  which  seemed  more  terrible 
than  the  flash  of  the  dagger.  When  Ginevra  found  herself 


236  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

face  to  face  with  her  father  she  looked  at  him  steadily  with 
a  glance  of  triumph,  went  slowly  toward  him,  and  knelt 
down. 

"No,  no!  I  cannot!"  he  exclaimed,  flinging  away  the 
weapon  with  such  force  that  it  stuck  fast  in  the  wainscot. 

"Mercy,  then,  mercy!"  said  she.  "You  hesitate  to  kill 
me,  but  you  refuse  me  life.  Oh,  father,  I  never  loved  you 
so  well — but  give  me  Luigi.  I  ask  your  consent  on  my 
knees;  a  daughter  may  humble  herself  to  her  father.  My 
Luigi,  or  I  must  die!" 

The  violent  excitement  that  choked  her  prevented  her 
saying  more;  she  found  no  voice;  her  convulsive  efforts 
plainly  showed  that  she  was  between  life  and  death.  Bar- 
tolomeo  roughly  pushed  her  away. 

"Go,"  he  said,  "the  wife  of  Luigi  Porta  cannot  be  a 
Piombo.  I  no  longer  have  a  daughter!  I  cannot  bring  my- 
self to  curse  you,  but  I  give  you  up.  You  have  now  no 
father.  My  Ginevra  Piombo  is  buried  then!"  he  exclaimed 
in  a  deep  tone,  as  he  clutched  at  his  heart. — "G-o,  I  say, 
wretched  girl,"  he  went  on  after  a  moment's  silence.  "Go, 
and  never  let  me  see  you  again. ' ' 

He  took  Ginevra  by  the  arm,  and  in  silence  led  her  out 
of  the  house. 

"Luigi!"  cried  Ginevra,  as  she  went  into  the  humble 
room  where  the  officer  was  lodged,  "my  Luigi,  we  have  no 
fortune  but  our  love." 

"We  are  richer  than  all  the  kings  of  the  earth,"  he  replied. 

"My  father  and  mother  have  ca§t  me  out,"  said  she  with 
deep  melancholy. 

"I  will  love  you  for  them." 

"Shall  we  be  very  happy?"  she  cried,  with  a  gayety  that 
had  something  terrible  in  it. 

"And  forever!"    he  answered,  clasping  her  to  his  heart. 

On  the  day  following  that  on  which  Ginevra  had  quitted 
her  father's  house,  she  went  to  beg  Madame  Servin  to  grant 
her  protection  and  shelter  till  the  time,  fixed  by  law,  when 
she  could  be  married  to  Luigi.  There  began  her  apprentice- 


THE    VENDETTA  237 

ship  to  the  troubles  which  the  world  strews  in  the  way  of 
those  who  do  not  obey  its  rules.  Madame  Servin,  who  was 
greatly  distressed  at  the  injury  that  Ginevra's  adventure  had 
done  the  painter,  received  the  fugitive  coldly,  and  explained 
to  her  with  circumspect  politeness  that  she  was  not  to  count 
on  her  support.  Too  proud  to  insist,  but  amazed  at  such 
selfishness,  to  which  she  was  unaccustomed,  the  young  Cor- 
sican  went  to  lodge  in  a  furnished  house  as  near  as  possible 
to  Luigi's.  The  son  of  the  Portas  spent  all  his  days  at  the 
feet  of  his  beloved;  his  youthful  love,  and  the  purity  of  his 
mind,  dispersed  the  clouds  which  her  father's  reprobation 
had  settled  on  the  banished  daughter's  brow;  and  he  painted 
the  future  as  so  fair  that  she  ended  by  smiling,  though  she 
could  not  forget  her  parents'  severity. 

One  morning  the  maid  of  the  house  brought  up  to  her 
several  trunks  containing  dress-stuffs,  linen,  and  a  quantity 
of  things  needful  for  a  young  woman  settling  for  the  first 
time.  In  this  she  recognized  the  foreseeing  kindness  of  a 
mother;  for  as  she  examined  these  gifts,  she  found  a  purse 
into  which  the  Baroness  had  put  some  money  belonging  to 
Ginevra,  adding  all  her  own  savings.  With  the  money  was 
a  letter,  in  which  she  implored  her  daughter  to  give  up  her 
fatal  purpose  of  marrying,  if  there  were  yet  time.  She  had 
been  obliged,  she  said,  to  take  unheard-of  precautions  to  get 
this  small  assistance  conveyed  to  Ginevra;  she  begged  her 
not  to  accuse  her  of  hardness  if  henceforth  she  left  her  neg- 
lected; she  feared  she  could  do  no  more  for  her;  she  blessed 
her,  hoped  she  might  find  happiness  in  this  fatal  marriage 
if  she  persisted,  and  assured  her  that  her  one  thought  was  of 
her  beloved  daughter.  At  this  point  tears  had  blotted  out 
many  words  of  the  letter. 

"Oh,  mother!"  cried  Ginevra,  quite  overcome. 

She  felt  a  longing  to  throw  herself  at  her  mother's  feet, 
to  see  her,  to  breathe  the  blessed  air  of  home ;  she  was  on 
the  point  of  rushing  off  when  Luigi  came  in.  She  looked  at 
him,  and  filial  affection  vanished,  her  tears  were  dried,  she 
could  not  find  it  in  her  to  leave  the  unhappy  and  loving 


238  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

youth.  To  be  the  sole  hope  of  a  noble  soul,  to  love  and  to 
desert  it — such  a  sacrifice  is  treason  of  which  no  young  heart 
is  capable.  Ginevra  had  the  generosity  to  bury  her  grief  at 
the  bottom  of  her  soul. 

At  last  the  day  of  their  wedding  came.  Ginevra  found 
no  one  near  her.  Luigi  took  advantage  of  the  moment  when 
she  was  dressing  to  go  in  search  of  the  necessary  witnesses 
to  their  marriage  act.  These  were  very  good  people.  One 
of  them,  an  old  quartermaster  of  hussars,  had,  when  in  the 
army,  found  himself  under  such  obligations  to  Luigi  as  an 
honest  man  never  forgets;  he  had  become  a  job-master,  and 
had  several  hackney  carriages.  The  other,  a  builder,  was 
the  proprietor  of  the  house  where  the  young  couple  were  to 
lodge.  Each  of  these  brought  a  friend,  and  all  four  came 
with  Luigi  to  fetch  the  bride.  Unaccustomed  as  they  were 
to  social  grimacing,  seeing  nothing  extraordinary  in  the  ser- 
vice they  were  doing  to  Luigi,  these  men  were  decently  but 
quite  plainly  dressed,  and  there  was  nothing  to  proclaim  the 
gay  escort  of  a  wedding.  Ginevra  herself  was  very  simply 
clad,  to  be  in  keeping  with  her  fortune;  but,  nevertheless, 
there  was  something  so  noble  and  impressive  in  her  beauty 
that  at  the  sight  of  her  the  words  died  on  the  lips  of  the 
good  folk  who  had  been  prepared  to  pay  her  some  compli- 
ment; they  bowed  respectfully,  and  she  bowed  in  return; 
they  looked  at  her  in  silence,  and  could  only  admire  her. 
Joy  can  only  express  itself  among  equals.  So,  as  fate  would 
have  it,  all  was  gloomy  and  serious  around  the  lovers;  there 
was  nothing  to  reflect  their  happiness. 

The  church  and  the  mairie  were  not  far  away.  The  two 
Corsicans,  followed  by  the  four  witnesses  required  by  law, 
decided  to  go  on  foot,  with  a  simplicity  which  robbed  this 
great  event  of  social  life  of  all  parade.  In  the  courtyard  of 
the  mairie  they  found  a  crowd  of  carriages,  which  announced 
a  numerous  party  within.  They  went  upstairs  and  entered 
a  large  room,  where  the  couples  who  were  to  be  made  happy 
on  this  particular  day  were  awaiting  the  Maire  of  that  quar- 
ter of  Paris  with  considerable  impatience.  Ginevra  sat  down 


THE    VENDETTA  239 

by  Luigi  on  the  end  of  a  long  bench,  and  their  witnesses  re- 
mained standing  for  lack  of  seats.  Two  brides,  pompously 
arrayed  in  white,  loaded  with  ribbons  and  lace  and  pearls, 
and  crowned  with  bunches  of  orange-blossom  of  which  the 
sheeny  buds  quivered  under  their  veils,  were  surrounded  by 
their  families  and  accompanied  by  their  mothers,  to  whom 
they  turned  with  looks  at  once  timid  and  satisfied;  every 
eye  reflected  their  happiness,  and  every  face  seemed  to  ex- 
hale benedictions.  Fathers,  witnesses,  brothers,  and  sisters 
were  coming  and  going  like  a  swarm  of  insects  playing  in 
a  sunbeam  which  soon  must  vanish.  Every  one  seemed  to 
understand  the  preciousness  of  this  brief  hour  in  life  when 
the  heart  stands  poised  between  two  hopes — the  wishes  of 
the  past,  the  promise  of  the  future. 

At  this  sight  Ginevra  felt  her  heart  swell,  and  she  pressed 
Luigi' s  arm.  He  gave  her  a  look,  and  a  tear  rose  to  the 
young  man's  eye;  he  never  saw  more  clearly  than  at  that 
moment  all  that  his  Ginevra  had  sacrificed  for  him.  That 
rare  tear  made  the  young  girl  forget  the  forlorn  position  in 
which  she  stood.  Love  poured  treasures  of  light  between 
the  lovers,  who  from  that  moment  saw  nothing  but  each 
other  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion. 

Their  witnesses,  indifferent  to  the  ceremonial,  were  quietly 
discussing  business  matters. 

"Oats  are  very  dear, ' '  said  the  quartermaster  to  the  mason. 

"They  have  not  yet  gone  up  so  high  as  plaster  in  propor- 
tion, ' '  said  the  builder.  And  they  walked  round  the  large 
room. 

"What  a  lot  of  time  we  are  losing  here!"  exclaimed  the 
mason,  putting  a  huge  silver  watch  back  into  his  pocket. 

Luigi  and  Ginevra,  clinging  to  each  other,  seemed  to  be 
but  one  person.  A  poet  would  certainly  have  admired  these 
two  heads,  full  of  the  same  feeling,  alike  in  coloring,  melan- 
choly and  silent  in  the  presence  of  the  two  buzzing  wedding- 
parties,  of  four  excited  families  sparkling  with  diamonds  and 
flowers,  and  full  of  gayety  which  seemed  a  mere  effervescence. 
All  the  joys  of  which  these  loud  and  gorgeous  groups  made 


240  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

a  display,  Luigi  and  Ginevra  kept  buried  at  the  bottom  of 
their  hearts.  On  one  side  was  the  coarse  clamor  of  pleasure,- 
on  the  other  the  delicate  silence  of  happy  souls:  earth  and 
heaven. 

But  Ginevra  trembled,  and  could  not  altogether  shake  off 
her  woman's  weakness.  Superstitious,  as  Italians  are,  she 
regarded  this  contrast  as  an  omen,  and  in  the  depths  of  her 
heart  she  harbored  a  feeling  of  dread,  as  unconquerable  as 
her  love  itself. 

Suddenly  an  official  in  livery  threw  open  the  double  doors; 
silence  fell,  and  his  voice  sounded  like  a  yelp  as  he  called  out 
the  names  of  Monsieur  Luigi  Porta  and  Mademoiselle  Ginevra 
Piombo.  This  incident  caused  the  pair  some  embarrassment. 
The  celebrity  of  the  name  of  Piombo  attracted  attention ;  the 
spectators  looked  about  them  for  a  wedding-party  which 
must  surely  be  a  splendid  one.  Ginevrarose;  her  eyes,  thun- 
derous with  pride,  subdued  the  crowd,  she  took  Luigi 's  arm 
and  went  forward  with  a  firm  step,  followed  by  the  witnesses, 
A  murmur  of  astonishment  which  rapidly  grew  louder,  and 
whispering  on  all  sides,  reminded  Ginevra  that  the  world 
was  calling  her  to  account  for  her  parents'  absence.  Her 
father's  curse  seemed  to  be  pursuing  her. 

"Wait  for  the  families  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom," 
said  the  Maire  to  the  clerk,  who  at  once  began  to  read  the 
contracts. 

"The  father  and  mother  enter  a  protest,"  said  the  clerk 
indifferently. 

"On  both  sides?"  asked  the  Maire. 

"The  man  is  an  orphan." 

"Where  are  the  witnesses?" 

"They  are  here,"  said  the  clerk,  pointing  to  the  four 
motionless  and  silent  men  who  stood  like  statues,  with  their 
arms  crossed. 

"But  if  the  parents  protest — ?"    said  the  Maire. 

"The  'respectful  summons'  has  been  presented  in  due 
form,"  replied  the  man,  rising  to  place  the  various  docu- 
ments in  the  functionary's  hands. 


THE    VENDEITA  241 

This  discussion  in  an  office  seemed  to  brand  them,  and  in 
a  few  words  told  a  whole  history.  The  hatred  of  the  Porta 
and  the  Piombo,  all  these  terrible  passions,  were  thus  re- 
corded on  a  page  of  a  register,  as  the  annals  of  a  nation  may 
be  inscribed  on  a  tombstone  in  a  few  lines,  nay,  even  in  a 
single  name:  Robespierre  or  Napoleon.  Ginevra  was  trem- 
bling. Like  the  dove  crossing  the  waters,  which  had  no 
rest  for  her  foot  but  in  the  ark,  her  eyes  could  take  refuge 
only  in  Luigi's,  for  all  else  was  cold  and  sad.  The  Maire 
had  a  stern,  disapproving  look,  and  his  clerk  stared  at  the 
couple  with  ill-natured  curiosity.  Nothing  ever  had  less 
the  appearance  of  a  festivity.  Like  all  the  other  events  of 
human  life  when  they  are  stripped  of  their  accessories,  it  was 
a  simple  thing  in  itself,  immense  in  its  idea. 

After  some  questions,  to  which  they  replied,  the  Maire 
muttered  a  few  words,  and  then,  having  signed  their  names 
in  the  register,  Luigi  and  Ginevra  were  man  and  wife.  The 
young  Corsicans,  whose  union  had  all  the  poetry  which 
genius  has  consecrated  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  went  away 
between  two  lines  of  jubilant  relations  to  whom  they  did 
not  belong,  and  who  were  out  of  patience  at  the  delay  caused 
by  a  marriage  apparently  so  forlorn.  When  the  girl  found 
herself  in  the  courtyard  and  under  the  open  sky,  a  deep  sigh 
broke  from  her  very  heart. 

"Oh,  will  a  whole  life  of  love  and  devotion  suffice  to  repay 
my  Ginevra  for  her  courage  and  tenderness?"  said  Luigi. 

At  these  words,  spoken  with  tears  of  joy,  the  bride  forgot 
all  her  suffering,  for  she  had  suffered  in  showing  herself  to 
the  world  claiming  a  happiness  which  her  parents  refused 
to  sanction. 

"Why  do  men  try  to  come  between  us?"  she  said,  with 
a  simplicity  of  feeling  that  enchanted  Luigi. 

Gladness  made  them  more  light-hearted.  They  saw  neither 
the  sky,  nor  the  earth,  nor  the  houses,  and  flew  on  wings  to 
the  church.  At  last  they  found  themselves  in  a  small,  dark 
chapel,  and  in  front  of  a  humble  altar  where  an  old  priest 
married  them.  There,  as  at  the  Mairie,  they  were  pursued 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC— 11 


242  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

by  the  two  weddings  that  persecuted  them  with  their  splen- 
dor. The  church,  filled  with  friends  and  relations,  rang 
with  the  noise  made  by  carriages,  beadles,  porters,  and 
priests.  Altars  glittered  with  ecclesiastical  magnificence; 
the  crowns  of  orange-blossom  that  decked  the  statues  of  the 
Virgin  seemed  quite  new.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  flow- 
ers, with  perfumes,  gleaming  tapers,  and  velvet  cushions  em- 
broidered with  gold.  God  seemed  to  have  a  share  in  this 
rapture  of  a  day. 

When  the  symbol  of  eternal  union  was  to  be  held  above 
the  heads  of  Luigi  and  Ginevra — the  yoke  of  white  satin 
which  for  some  is  so  soft,  so  bright,  so  light,  and  for  the 
greater  number  is  made  of  lead — the  priest  looked  round  in 
vain  for  two  young  boys  to  fill  the  happy  office;  two  of  the 
witnesses  took  their  place.  The  priest  gave  the  couple  a 
hasty  discourse  on  the  dangers  of  life,  and  on  the  duties 
they  must  one  day  inculcate  in  their  children,  and  he  here 
took  occasion  to  insinuate  a  reflection  on  the  absence  of 
Ginevra's  parents;  then  having  united  them  in  the  presence 
of  (rod,  as  the  Mai  re  had  united  them  in  the  presence  of  the 
Law,  he  ended  the  mass,  and  left  them. 

"God  bless  them,"  said  Yergniaud  to  the  mason  at  the 
church  door.  "Never  were  two  creatures  better  made  for 
each  other.  That  girl's  parents  are  wretches.  I  know  no 
braver  soldier  than  Colonel  Luigi!  If  all  the  world  had 
behaved  as  he  did,  L'autre1  would  still  be  with  as." 

The  soldier's  blessing,  the  only  one  breathed  for  them 
this  day,  fell  like  balm  on  Ginevra's  heart. 

They  all  parted  with  shaking  of  hands,  and  Luigi  cordially 
thanked  his  landlord. 

"Good-by,  old  fellow,"  said  Luigi  to  the  quartermaster. 
"And  thank  you." 

"At  your  service,  Colonel,  soul  and  body,  horses  and 
chaises — all  that  is  mine  is  yours." 

"How  well  he  loves  you!"  said  Ginevra. 

1  Napoleon. 


THE    VENDETTA 

Luigi  eagerly  led  his  wife  home  to  the  house  they  were 
to  live  in :  they  soon  reached  the  modest  apartment,  and  there, 
when  the  door  was  closed,  Luigi  took  her  in  his  arms,  ex- 
claiming, "Oh.  my  Ginevra — for  yon  are  mine  now — here  is 
our  real  festival !  Here,"  he  went  on,  "all  will  smile  on  us." 

Together  they  went  through  the  three  rooms  which  com- 
posed their  dwelling.  The  entrance  hall  served  as  drawing- 
room  and  dining-room.  To  the  right  was  a  bedroom,  to  the 
left  a  sort  of  large  closet  which  Luigi  had  arranged  for  his 
beloved  wife,  where  she  found  easels,  her  paint-box,  some 
casts,  models,  lay  figures,  pictures,  portfolios,  in  short,  all 
the  apparatus  of  an  artist. 

' '  Here  I  shall  work, ' '  said  she,  with  childlike  glee. 

She  looked  for  a  long  time  at  the  paper  and  the  furniture, 
constantly  turning  to  Luigi  to  thank  him,  for  there  was  a 
kind  of  magnificence  in  this  humble  retreat;  a  bookcase  con- 
tained Ginevra's  favorite  books,  and  there  was  a  piano.  She 
sat  down  on  an  ottoman,  drew  Luigi  to  her  side,  and  clasping 
his  hand,  "You  have  such  good  taste,"  said  she,  in  a  caress* 
ing  tone. 

"Your  words  make  me  very  happy,"  he  replied. 

"But.  come,  let  us  see  everything,  '  said  Ginevra,  from 
whom  Luigi  had  kept  the  secret  of  this  little  home. 

They  went  into  a  bridal  chamber  that  was  as  fresh  and 
white  as  a  maiden. 

"Oh!  come  away,"  said  Luigi,  laughing. 

"But  I  must  see  everything,''  and  Ginevra  imperiously 
went  on,  examining  all  the  furniture  with  the  curiosity  of  an 
antiquary  studying  a  medal.  She  touched  the  silk  stuff  and 
scrutinized  everything  with  the  childlike  delight  of  a  bride 
turning  over  the  treasures  of  the  corbeille  brought  her  bv  her 
husband. 

"We  have  begun  by  ruining  ourselves,"  she  said  in  a 
half -glad,  half -regretful  tone. 

"It  is  true;  all  my  arrears  of  pay  are  there,"  replied 
Luigi.  "I  sold  it  to  a  good  fellow  named  Gigonnet." 

"Why?"  she  asked,  in  a  reproachful  voice,  which  be- 


244  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

trayed,  "however,  a  secret  satisfaction.  "Do  you  think  I 
should  be  less  happy  under  a  bare  roof?  Still,"  she  went 
on,  "it  is  all  very  pretty,  and  it  is  ours!" 

Luigi  looked  at  her  with  such  enthusiasm  that  she  cast 
down  her  eyes,  and  said,  "Let  us  see  the  rest." 

Above  these  three  rooms,  in  the  attics,  were  a  workroom 
for  Luigi,  a  kitchen,  and  a  servant's  room.  Ginevra  was 
content  with  her  little  domain,  though  the  view  was  limited 
by  the  high  wall  of  a  neighboring  house,  and  the  courtyard 
on  which  the  rooms  looked  was  gloomy.  But  the  lovers  were 
so  glad  of  heart,  hope  so  beautified  the  future,  that  they  would 
see  nothing  but  enchantment  in  their  mysterious  dwelling. 
They  were  buried  in  this  huge  house,  lost  in  the  immensity 
of  Paris,  like  two  pearls  in  their  shell,  in  the  bosom  of  the 
deep  sea.  For  any  one  else  it  would  have  been  a  prison ;  to 
them  it  was  Paradise. 

The  first  days  of  their  married  life  were  given  to  love;  it 
was  too  difficult  for  them  to  devote  themselves  at  once  to 
work,  and  they  could  not  resist  the  fascination  of  their  mut- 
ual passion.  Luigi  would  recline  for  hours  at  his  wife's  feet, 
admiring  the  color  of  her  hair,  the  shape  of  her  forehead,  the 
exquisite  setting  of  her  eyes,  the  purity  and  whiteness  of  the 
arched  brow  beneath  which  they  slowly  rose  or  fell,  express- 
ing the  happiness  of  satisfied  love.  Ginevra  stroked  her 
Luigi's  locks,  never  tiring  of  gazing  at  what  she  called,  in  one 
of  her  own  phrases,  the  beltd  folgorante  of  the  young  man,  and 
his  delicately  cut  features;  always  fascinated  by  the  dignity 
of  his  manners,  while  always  charming  him  by  the  grace  of 
her  own.  They  played  like  children  with  the  merest  trifles, 
these  trifles  always  brought  them  back  to  their  passion,  and 
they  ceased  playing  only  to  lapse  into  the  day-dreams  of  far 
niente.  An  air  sung  by  Ginevra  would  reproduce  for  them 
the  exquisite  hues  of  their  love. 

Or,  matching  their  steps  as  they  had  matched  their  souls, 
they  wandered  about  the  country,  finding  their  love  in  every- 
thing, in  the  flowers,  in  the  sky,  in  the  heart  of  the  fiery 
glow  of  the  setting  sun;  they  read  it  even  in  the  changing 


THE    VENDETTA  245 

clouds  that  were  tossed  on  the  winds.  No  day  was  ever  like 
the  lavSt,  their  love  continued  to  grow  because  it  was  true. 
In  a  very  few  days  they  had  proved  each  other,  and  had  in- 
stinctively perceived  that  their  souls  were  of  such  a  temper 
that  their  inexhaustible  riches  seemed  to  promise  ever  new 
joys  for  the  future.  This  was  love  in  all  its  fresh  candor, 
with  its  endless  prattle,  its  unfinished  sentences,  its  long 
silences,  its  Oriental  restfulness  and  ardor.  Luigi  and  Gi- 
nevra  had  wholly  understood  love.  Is  not  love  like  the  sea, 
which,  seen  superficially  or  in  haste,  is  accused  of  monotony 
by  vulgar  minds,  while  certain  privileged  beings  can  spend 
all  their  life  admiring  it  and  finding  in  it  changeful  phe- 
nomena which  delight  them? 

One  day,  however,  prudence  dragged  the  young  couple 
from  their  Garden  of  Eden;  they  must  work  for  their  liv- 
ing. Ginevra,  who  had  a  remarkable  talent  for  copying 
pictures,  set  to  work  to  produce  copies,  and  formed  a  con- 
nection among  dealers.  Luigi,  too,  eagerly  sought  some 
occupation;  but  it  was  difficult  for  a  young  officer,  whose 
talents  were  limited  to  a  thorough  knowledge  of  tactics,  to 
find  any  employment  in  Paris.  At  last,  one  day  when, 
weary  of  his  vain  efforts,  he  felt  despair  in  his  soul  at  see- 
ing that  the  whole  burden  of  providing  for  their  existence 
rested  on  Ginevra,  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  earn 
something  by  his  handwriting,  which  was  beautiful.  With 
a  perseverance,  of  which  his  wife  had  set  the  example,  he 
went  to  ask  work  of  the  attorneys,  the  notaries,  and  the 
pleaders  of  Paris.  The  frankness  of  his  manners  and  his 
painful  situation  greatly  interested  people  in  his  favor,  and 
he  got  enough  copying  to  be  obliged  to  employ  youths 
under  him.  Presently  he  took  work  on  a  larger  scale. 
The  income  derived  from  this  office- work  and  the  price  of 
Ginevra's  paintings  put  the  young  household  on  a  footing 
of  comfort,  which  they  were  proud  of  as  the  fruit  of  their 
own  industry. 

This  was  the  sunniest  period  of  their  life.  The  days 
glided  swiftly  by  between  work  and  the  happiness  of  love. 


246  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

In  the  evening  after  working  hard  they  found  themselves 
happy  in  Ginevra's  cell.  Music  then  consoled  them  for 
their  fatigues.  No  shade  of  melancholy  ever  clouded  the 
young  wife's  features,  and  she  never  allowed  herself  to 
utter  a  lament.  She  could  always  appear  to  her  Luigi 
with  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  light  in  her  eyes.  Each 
cherished  a  ruling  thought  which  would  have  made  them 
take  pleasure  in  the  hardest  toil:  Ginevra  told  herself  she 
was  working  for  Luigi,  and  Luigi  for  Ginevra.  Sometimes, 
in  her  husband's  absence,  the  young  wife  would  think  of 
the  perfect  joy  it  would  have  been  if  this  life  of  love 
might  have  been  spent  in  the  sight  of  her  father  and 
mother;  then  she  would  sink  into  deep  melancholy,  and 
feel  all  the  pangs  of  remorse;  dark  pictures  would  pass 
like  shadows  before  her  fancy;  she  would  see  her  old 
father  alone,  or  her  mother  weeping  in  the  evenings,  and 
hiding  her  tears  from  the  inexorable  Piombo.  Those  two 
grave,  white  heads  would  suddenly  rise  up  before  her,  and 
she  fancied  she  would  never  see  them  again  but  in  the 
fantastical  light  of  memory.  This  idea  haunted  her  like 
a  presentiment. 

She  kept  the  anniversary  of  their  wedding  by  giving  her 
husband  a  portrait  he  had  often  wished  for — that  of  his  Gi- 
nevra. The  young  artist  had  never  executed  so  remarkable 
a  work.  Apart  from  the  likeness,  which  was  perfect,  the 
brilliancy  of  her  beauty,  the  purity  of  her  feelings,  the  hap- 
piness of  love,  were  rendered  with  a  kind  of  magic.  The 
masterpiece  was  hung  up  with  due  ceremony. 

They  spent  another  year  in  the  midst  of  comfort.  The 
history  of  their  life  can  be  told  in  these  words:  "They  were 
happy."  No  event  occurred  deserving  to  be  related. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  winter  of  1819  the  picture-dealers 
advised  Ginevra  to  bring  them  something  else  than  copies, 
as,  in  consequence  of  the  great  competition,  they  could  no 
longer  sell  them  to  advantage.  Madame  Porta  acknowl- 
edged the  mistake  she  had  made  in  not  busying  herself 
with  genre  pictures  which  would  have  won  her  a  name; 


THE    VENDETTA  247 

she  undertook  to  paint  portraits;  but  she  had  to  contend 
against  a  crowd  of  artists  even  poorer  than  herself.  How- 
ever, as  Luigi  and  Ginevra  had  saved  some  money,  they  did 
not  despair  of  the  future.  At  the  end  of  this  same  winter 
Luigi  was  working  without  ceasing.  He,  too,  had  to  com- 
pete with  rivals;  the  price  of  copying  had  fallen  so  low  that 
he  could  no  longer  employ  assistants,  and  was  compelled  to 
give  up  more  time  to  his  labor  to  earn  the  same  amount. 
His  wife  had  painted  several  pictures  which  were  not  de- 
void of  merit,  but  dealers  were  scarcely  buying  even  those 
of  artists  of  repute.  OHnevra  offered  them  for  almost  noth- 
ing, and  could  not  sell  them. 

The  situation  of  the  household  was  something  terrible; 
the  souls  of  the  husband  and  wife  floated  in  happiness,  love 
loaded  them  with  its  treasures ;  poverty  rose  up  like  a  skele- 
ton in  the  midst  of  this  harvest  of  joys,  and  they  hid  their 
alarms  from  each  other.  When  Ginevra  felt  herself  on  the 
verge  of  tears  as  she  saw  Luigi  suffering,  she  heaped  caresses 
on  him;  Luigi,  in  the  same  way,  hid  the  blackest  care  in 
his  heart,  while  expressing  the  fondest  devotion  to  Gi- 
nevra. They  sought  some  compensation  for  their  woes  in 
the  enthusiasm  of  their  feelings,  and  their  words,  their 
joys,  their  playfulness,  were  marked  by  a  kind  of  frenzy. 
They  were  alarmed  at  the  future.  What  sentiment  is  there 
to  compare  in  strength  with  a  passion  which  must  end  to- 
morrow— killed  by  death  or  necessity  ?  When  they  spoke 
of  their  poverty,  they  felt  the  need  of  deluding  each  other, 
and  snatched  at  the  smallest  hope  with  equal  eagerness. 

One  night  Ginevra  sought  in  vain  for  Luigi  at  her  side, 
and  got  up  quite  frightened.  A  pale  gleam  reflected  from 
the  dingy  wall  of  the  little  courtyard  led  her  to  guess  that 
her  husband  sat  up  to  work  at  night.  Luigi  waited  till  his 
wife  was  asleep  to  go  up  to  his  workroom.  The  clock 
struck  four.  Ginevra  went  back  to  bed  and  feigned  sleep; 
Luigi  came  back,  overwhelmed  by  fatigue  and  want  of 
sleep,  and  Ginevra  gazed  sadly  at  the  handsome  face  on 
which  labor  and  anxiety  had  already  traced  some  lines. 


248  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

"And  it  is  for  me  that  lie  spends  the  night  in  writing," 
she  thought,  and  she  wept. 

An  idea  came  to  dry  her  tears:  she  would  imitate  Luigi. 
That  same  day  she  went  to  a  rich  print-seller,  and  by  the 
help  of  a  letter  of  recommendation  to  him  that  she  had  ob- 
tained from  Elie  Magus,  a  picture-dealer,  she  got  some  work 
in  coloring  prints.  All  day  she  painted  and  attended  to  her 
household  cares,  then  at  night  she  colored  prints.  These  two 
beings,  so  tenderly  in  love,  got  into  bed  only  to  get  out  of  it 
again.  Each  pretended  to  sleep,  and  out  of  devotion  to  the 
other  stole  away  as  soon  as  one  had  deceived  the  other.  One 
night  Luigi,  knocked  over  by  a  sort  of  fever  caused  by  work, 
of  which  the  burden  was  beginning  to  crush  him,  threw  open 
the  window  of  his  workroom  to  inhale  the  fresh  morning  air, 
and  shake  off  his  pain,  when,  happening  to  look  down,  he  saw 
the  light  thrown  on  the  wall  by  Ginevra's  lamp;  the  unhappy 
man  guessed  the  truth ;  he  went  downstairs,  walking  softly, 
and  discovered  'his  wife  in  her  studio  coloring  prints. 

"Oh,  Ginevra,"  he  exclaimed. 

She  started  convulsively  in  her  chair,  and  turned  scarlet. 

"Could  I  sleep  while  you  were  wearing  yourself  out  with 
work?"  said  she. 

"But  I  alone  have  a  right  to  work  so  hard." 

"And  can  I  sit  idle?"  replied  the  young  wife,  whose 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  "when  I  know  that  every  morsel  of 
bread  almost  costs  us  a  drop  of  your  blood  ?  I  should  die 
if  I  did  not  add  my  efforts  to  yours.  Ought  we  not  to  have 
everything  in  common,  pleasures  and  pains?" 

"She  is  cold!"  cried  Luigi,  in  despair.  "Wrap  your 
shawl  closer  over  your  chest,  my  Ginevra,  the  night  is 
damp  and  chilly." 

They  went  to  the  window,  the  young  wife  leaning  her 
head  on  her  beloved  husband's  shoulder,  he  with  his  arm 
round  her,  sunk  in  deep  silence,  and  watching  the  sky 
which  dawn  was  slowly  lighting  up. 

Gray  clouds  swept  across  in  quick  succession,  and  the 
east  grew  brighter  by  degrees. 


THE    VENDETTA  2i9 

"See,"'  said  Ginevra,  "it  is  a  promise — we  shall  be 
happy." 

"Yes,  in  heaven!"  replied  Luigi,  with  a  bitter  smile. 
"Oh,  Ginevra!  you  who  deserved  all  the  riches  of 
earth  .  .  ." 

"I  have  your  heart!"  said  she  in  a  glad  tone. 

"Ah,  and  I  do  not  complain,"  he  went  on,  clasping 
her  closely  to  him.  And  he  covered  the  delicate  face  with 
kisses;  it  was  already  beginning  to  lose  the  freshness  of 
youth,  but  the  expression  was  so  tender  and  sweet  that  he 
could  never  look  at  it  without  feeling  comforted. 

"How  still!"  said  Ginevra.  "I  enjoy  sitting  late,  my 
dearest.  The  majesty  of  night  is  really  contagious;  it  is 
impressive,  inspiring;  there  is  something  strangely  solemn 
in  the  thought:  all  sleeps,  but  I  am  awake." 

"Oh,  my  Ginevra,  I  feel,  not  for  the  first  time,  the  re- 
fined grace  of  your  soul — but,  see,  this  is  daybreak,  come 
and  sleep." 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "if  I  am  not  the  only  one  to  sleep.  I 
was  miserable  indeed  the  night  when  I  discovered  that  my 
Luigi  was  awake  and  at  work  without  me." 

The  valor  with  which  the  young  people  defied  misfortune 
for  some  time  found  a  reward.  But  the  event  which  usually 
crowns  the  joys  of  a  household  was  destined  to  be  fatal  to 
them.  Ginevra  gave  birth  to  a  boy  who,  to  use  a  common 
phrase,  was  as  beautiful  as  the  day.  The  feeling  of  mother- 
hood doubled  the  young  creature's  strength.  Luigi  bor- 
rowed money  to  defray  the  expenses  of  her  confinement. 
Thus,  just  at  first,  she  did  not  feel  all  the  painfulness  of 
their  situation,  and  the  young  parents  gave  themselves  up 
to  the  joy  of  rearing  a  child.  This  was  their  last  gleam  of 
happiness.  Like  two  swimmers  who  unite  their  forces  to 
stem  a  current,  the  Corsicans  at  first  struggled  bravely; 
but  sometimes  they  gave  themselves  up  to  an  apathy  re- 
sembling the  torpor  that  precedes  death,  and  they  soon 
were  obliged  to  sell  their  little  treasures. 

Poverty  suddenly  stood  before  them,  not   hideous,  but 


200  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

humbly  attired,  almost  pleasant  to  endure;  there  was  noth- 
ing appalling  in  her  voice;  she  did  not  bring  despair  with 
her,  nor  spectres,  nor  squalor,  but  she  made  them  forget 
the  traditions  and  the  habit  of  comfort;  she  broke  the 
mainsprings  of  pride.  Then  came  misery  in  all  its  horror, 
reckless  of  Her  rags,  and  trampling  every  human  feeling 
underfoot.  Seven  or  eight  months  after  the  birth  of 
little  Bartolomeo  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  recognize 
the  original  of  the  beautiful  portrait,  the  sole  adornment  of 
their  bare  room,  in  the  mother  who  was  suckling  a  sickly 
baby.  Without  any  fire  in  bitter  winter  weather,  Ginevra 
saw  the  soft  outlines  of  her  face  gradually  disappear,  her 
cheeks  became  as  white  as  porcelain,  her  eyes  colorless,  as 
though  the  springs  of  life  were  drying  up  in  her.  And 
watching  her  starved  and  pallid  infant,  she  suffered  only 
in  his  young  misery,  while  Luigi  had  not  the  heart  even 
to  smile  at  his  boy. 

"I  have  scoured  Paris,"  he  said  in  a  hollow  voice.  "I 
know  no  one,  and  how  can  I  dare  beg  of  strangers  ?  Ver- 
gniaud,  the  horse-breeder,  my  old  comrade  in  Egypt,  is 
implicated  in  some  conspiracy,  and  has  been  sent  to 
prison;  besides,  he  had  loaned  me  all  he  had  to  loan. 
As  to  the  landlord,  he  has  not  asked  me  for  any  rent  for 
more  than  a  year." 

"But  we  do  not  want  for  anything,"  Ginevra  gently 
answered,  with  an  affectation  of  calmness. 

"Each  day  brings  some  fresh  difficulty,"  replied  Luigi, 
with  horror. 

Luigi  took  all  Ginevra's  paintings,  the  portrait,  some 
furniture  which  they  yet  could  dispense  with,  and  sold 
them  all  for  a  mere  trifle;  the  money  thus  obtained  pro- 
longed their  sufferings  for  a  little  while.  During  these 
dreadful  days  Ginevra  showed  the  sublime  heights  of  her 
character,  and  the  extent  of  her  resignation.  She  bore  the 
inroads  of  suffering  with  stoical  firmness.  Her  vigorous 
soul  upheld  her  under  all  ills;  with  a  weak  hand  she 
worked  on  by  her  dying  child,  fulfilled  her  household 


THE    VENDETTA  251 

duties  with  miraculous  activity,  and  was  equal  to  every- 
thing. She  was  even  happy  when  she  saw  on  Luigi's  lips 
a  smile  of  surprise  at  the  look  of  neatness  she  contrived  to 
give  to  the  one  room  to  which  they  had  been  reduced. 

"I  have  kept  you  a  piece  of  bread,  dear,"  she  said  one 
evening  when  he  came  in  tired. 

"And  you?" 

"I  have  dined,  dear  Luigi;  I  want  nothing."  And  the 
sweet  expression  of  her  face,  even  more  than  her  words, 
urged  him  to  accept  the  food  of  which  she  had  deprived 
herself.  Luigi  embraced  her  with  one  of  the  despairing 
kisses  which  friends  gave  each  other  in  1793  as  they 
mounted  the  scaffold  together.  In  such  moments  as  these 
two  human  creatures  see  each  other  heart  to  heart.  Thus 
the  unhappy  Luigi,  understanding  at  once  that  his  wife 
was  fasting,  felt  the  fever  that  was  undermining  her;  he 
shivered,  and  went  out  on  the  pretext  of  pressing  business, 
for  he  would  rather  have  taken  the  most  insidious  poison 
than  escape  death  by  eating  the  last  morsel  of  bread  in  the 
house. 

He  wandered  about  Paris  among  the  smart  carriages, 
in  the  midst  of  the  insulting  luxury  that  IB  everywhere 
flaunted;  he  hurried  past  the  shops  of  the  money-changers 
where  gold  glitters  in  the  window;  finally,  he  determined 
to  sell  himself,  to  offer  himself  as  a  substitute  for  the  con- 
scription, hoping  by  this  sacrifice  to  save  Ginevra,  and  that 
during  his  absence  she  might  be  taken  into  favor  again  by 
Bartolomeo.  So  he  went  in  search  of  one  of  the  men  who 
deal  in  these  white  slaves,  and  felt  a  gleam  of  happiness  at 
recognizing  in  him  an  old  officer  of  the  Imperial  Guard. 

"For  two  days  I  have  eaten  nothing,"  he  said,  in  a  slow, 
weak  voice.  "My  wife  is  dying  of  hunger,  and  never  utters 
a  complaint;  she  will  die,  I  believe,  with  a  smile  on  her 
lips.  For  pity's  sake,  old  comrade,"  he  added,  with  a 
forlorn  smile,  "pay  for  me  in  advance;  I  am  strong,  I 
have  left  the  service,  and  I — " 

The  officer  gave  Luigi  something  on  account  of  the  sum 


252  BALZAC  'S    WORKS 

he  promised  to  get  for  him.  The  unhappy  man  laughed 
convulsively  when  he  grasped  a  handful  of  gold  pieces, 
and  ran  home  as  fast  as  he  could  go.  panting,  and  ex- 
claiming as  he  went,  "Oh,  my  Ginevra — Ginevra!" 

It  was  growing  dark  by  the  time  he  reached  home.  He 
went  in  softly,  fearing  to  over-excite  his  wife,  whom  he 
had  left  so  weak;  the  last  pale  rays  of  sunshine,  coming 
in  at  the  dormer  window,  fell  on  Ginevra's  face.  She  was 
asleep  in  her  chair  with  her  baby  at  her  breast. 

"Wake  up,  my  darling,"  said  he,  without  noticing  the 
attitude  of  the  child,  which  seemed  at  this  moment  to  have 
a  supernatural  glory. 

On  hearing  his  voice,  the  poor  mother  opened  her  eyes, 
met  Luigi's  look,  and  smiled;  but  Luigi  gave  a  cry  of  ter- 
ror. He  hardly  recognized  his  half-crazed  wife,  to  whom 
he  showed  the  gold,  with  a  gesture  of  savage  vehemence. 

Ginevra  began  to  laugh  mechanically,  but  suddenly  she 
cried  in  a  terrible  voice,  "Louis,  the  child  is  cold!" 

She  looked  at  the  infant  and  fainted.  Little  Bartolomeo 
was  dead. 

Luigi  took  his  wife  in  his  arms,  without  depriving  her 
of  the  child,  which  she  clutched  to  her  with  incomprehen- 
sible strength,  and  after  laying  her  on  the  bed  he  went  out 
to  call  for  help. 

"Great  Heaven!'*  he  exclaimed  to  his  landlord,  whom 
he  met  on  the  stairs,  "I  have  money,  and  my  child  is  dead 
of  hunger,  and  my  wife  is  dying.  Help  us." 

In  despair  he  went  back  to  his  wife,  leaving  the  worthy 
builder  and  various  neighbors  to  procure  whatever  might 
relieve  the  misery  of  which  till  now  they  had  known 
nothing,  so  carefully  had  the  Corsicans  concealed  it  out 
of  a  feeling  of  pride.  Luigi  had  tossed  the  gold  pieces 
on  the  floor,  and  was  kneeling  by  the  bed  where  his  wife 
lay. 

"Father,  take  charge  of  my  son,  who  bears  your  name!" 
cried  Ginevra  in  her  delirium. 

"Oh,  my  angel,  be  calm,"  said  Luigi,  kissing  her,  "bet- 


THE    VENDETTA  253 

ter  days  await  us!"     His  voice  and  embrace  restored  her  to 

some  composure. 

"Oh,  my  Louis,"  she  went  on,  looking  at  him  with  ex- 
traordinary fixity,  "listen  to  me.  I  feel  that  I  am  dying. 
My  death  is  quite  natural.  I  have  been  suffering  too 
much ;  and  then  happiness  so  great  as  mine  had  to  be  paid 
for.  Yes,  my  Luigi,  be  comforted.  I  have  been  so  happy 
that  if  I  had  to  begin  life  again,  I  would  again  accept  our 
lot.  I  am  a  bad  mother;  I  weep  for  you  even  more  than 
for  my  child. — My  child!"  she  repeated  in  a  full,  deep 
voice.  Two  tears  dropped  from  her  dying  eyes,  and  she 
suddenly  clasped  yet  closer  the  little  body  she  could  not 
warm.  "Give  my  hair  to  my  father  in  memory  of  his 
Grinevra,"  she  added.  "Tell  him  that  I  never,  never,  ac- 
cused him — " 

Her  head  fell  back  on  her  husband's  arm. 

"No,  no,  you  cannot  die!"  cried  Luigi.  "A  doctor  is 
coming.  We  have  food.  Your  father  will  receive  you 
into  favor.  Prosperity  is  dawning  on  us.  Stay  with  us, 
angel  of  beauty!" 

But  that  faithful  and  loving  heart  was  growing  cold. 
Ginevra  instinctively  turned  her  eyes  on  the  man  she 
adored,  though  she  was  no  longer  conscious  of  anything; 
confused  images  rose  before  her  mind,  fast  losing  all  mem- 
ories of  earth.  She  knew  that  Luigi  was  there,  for  she 
clung  more  and  more  tightly  to  his  ice-cold  hand,  as  if  to 
hold  herself  up  above  a  gulf  into  which  she  feared  to 
fall. 

"You  are  cold,  dear,"  she  said  presently;  "I  will  warm 
you." 

She  tried  to  lay  her  husband's  hand  over  her  heart,  but 
she  was  dead.  Two  doctors,  a  priest,  and  some  neighbors 
came  in  at  this  moment,  bringing  everything  that  was  need- 
ful to  save  the  lives  of  the  young  couple  and  to  soothe  their 
despair.  At  first  these  intruders  made  a  good  deal  of  noise, 
but  when  they  were  all  in  the  room  an  appalling  silence 
fell. 


254:  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

While  this  scene  was  taking  place  Bartolomeo  and  his 
wife  were  sitting  in  their  old  armchairs,  each  at  one  corner 
of  the  immense  fireplace  that  warmed  the  great  drawing- 
room  of  their  mansion.  The  clock  marked  midnight.  It 
was  long  since  the  old  couple  had  slept  well.  At  this  mo- 
ment they  were  silent,  like  two  old  folk  in  their  second 
childhood,  who  look  at  everything  and  see  nothing.  The 
deserted  room,  to  them  full  of  memories,  was  feebly  lighted 
by  a  single  lamp  fast  dying  out.  But  for  the  dancing  flames 
on  the  hearth  they  would  have  been  in  total  darkness.  One 
of  their  friends  had  just  left  them,  and  the  chair  on  which 
he  had  sat  during  his  visit  stood  between  the  old  people. 
Piombo  had  already  cast  more  than  one  glance  at  this  chair, 
and  these  glances,  fraught  with  thoughts,  followed  each 
other  like  pangs  of  remorse,  for  the  empty  chair  was  Gi- 
nevra's.  Elisa  Piombo  watched  the  expressions  that  passed 
across  her  husband's  pale  face.  Though  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  guess  the  Corsican's  feelings  from  the  violent 
changes  in  his  features,  they  were  to-night  by  turns  so 
threatening  and  so  sad  that  she  failed  to  read  this  inscru- 
table soul. 

Was  Bartolomeo  yielding  to  the  overwhelming  memories 
aroused  by  that  chair  ?  Was  he  pained  at  perceiving  that 
it  had  been  used  by  a  stranger  for  the  first  time  since  his 
daughter's  departure?  Had  the  hour  of  mercy,  the  hour 
so  long  and  vainly  hoped  for,  struck  at  last  ? 

These  reflections  agitated  the  heart  of  Elisa  Piombo. 
For  a  moment  her  husband's  face  was  so  terrible  that  she 
quaked  at  having  ventured  on  so  innocent  a  device  to  give 
her  an  opportunity  of  speaking  of  Ginevra.  At  this  in- 
stant the  northerly  blast  flung  the  snowflakes  against  the 
shutters  with  such  violence  that  the  old  people  could  hear 
their  soft  pelting.  Ginevra's  mother  bent  her  head  to  hide 
her  tears  from  her  husband.  Suddenly  a  sigh  broke  from 
the  old  man's  heart;  his  wife  looked  at  him;  he  was  down- 
cast. For  the  second  time  in  three  years  she  ventured  to 
speak  to  him  of  his  daughter. 


THE    VENDETTA  255 

"Supposing  Ginevra  were  cold!"  she  exclaimed  in  an. 
undertone.  "Or  perhaps  she  is  hungry,"  she  went  on. 
The  Corsican  shed  a  tear.  "She  has  a  child,  and  can- 
not suckle  it — her  milk  is  dried  up" — the  mother  added 
vehemently,  with  an  accent  of  despair. 

"Let  her  come,  oh,  let  her  come!"  cried  Piombo.  "Oh, 
my  darling  child,  you  have  conquered  me." 

The  mother  rose,  as  if  to  go  to  fetch  her  daughter.  At 
this  instant  the  door  was  flung  open,  and  a  man,  whose  face 
had  lost  all  semblance  of  humanity,  suddenly  stood  before 
them. 

"Dead! — Our  families  were  doomed  to  exterminate  each 
other;  for  this  is  all  that  remains  of  her,"  he  said,  laying 
on  the  table  Ginevra's  long,  black  hair. 

The  two  old  people  started,  as  though  they  had  been 
struck  by  a  thunderbolt;  they  could  not  see  Luigi. 

"He  has  spared  us  a  pistol  shot,  for  he  is  dead,"  said 
Bartolomeo  deliberately,  as  he  looked  on  the  ground. 

PARIS,  January,  1830. 


MADAME    FIRMIANI 

To  my  dear  Alexandre  de  Berny,  from  his  old  friend 
De   Balzac 


Tj  yfANY  TALES,  rich  in  situations,  or  made  dramatic 
/I//  by  the  endless  sport  of  chance,  carry  their  plot  in 
themselves,  and  can  be  related  artistically  or  sim- 
ply by  any  lips  without  the  smallest  loss  of  the  beauty  of 
the  subject;  but  there  are  some  incidents  of  human  life  to 
which  only  the  accents  of  the  heart  can  give  life;  there  are 
certain  anatomical  details,  so  to  speak,  of  which  the  deli- 
cacy appears  only  under  the  most  skilful  infusions  of  mind. 
Again,  there  are  portraits  which  demand  a  soul,  and  are 
nothing  without  the  more  ethereal  features  of  the  respon- 
sive countenance.  Finally,  there  are  certain  things  which 
we  know  not  how  to  say,  or  to  depict,  without  I  know  not 
what  unconceived  harmonies  that  are  under  the  influence  of 
a  day  or  an  hour,  of  a  happy  conjunction  of  celestial  signs, 
or  of  some  occult  moral  predisposition. 

Such  revelations  as  these  are  absolutely  required  for  the 
telling  of  this  simple  story,  in  which  1  would  fain  interest 
some  of  those  naturally  melancholy  and  pensive  souls  which 
are  fed  on  bland  emotions.  If  the  writer,  like  a  surgeon  by 
the  side  of  a  dying  friend,  has  become  imbued  with  a  sort  of 
respect  for  the  subject  he  is  handling,  why  should  not  the 
reader  share  this  inexplicable  feeling  ?  Is  it  so  difficult  to 
throw  one's  self  into  that  vague,  nervous  melancholy  which 
sheds  gray  hues  on  all  our  surroundings,  which  is  half 
an  illness,  though  its  languid  suffering  is  sometimes 
a  pleasure? 
(256) 


MADAME   FIRMIANI  257 

If  you  are  thinking  by  chance  of  the  dear  friends  you 
have  lost;  if  you  are  alone,  and  it  is  night,  or  the  day  is 
dying,  read  this  narrative;  otherwise,  throw  the  book  aside, 
here.  If  you  have  never  buried  some  kind  aunt,  an  invalid 
or  poor,  you  will  not  understand  these  pages.  To  some,  they 
will  be  odorous  as  of  musk;  to  others,  they  will  be  as  color- 
less, as  strictly  virtuous  as  those  of  Florian.  In  short,  the 
reader  must  have  known  the  luxury  of  tears;  must  have 
felt  the  wordless  grief  of  a  memory  that  drifts  lightly  by, 
bearing  a  shade  that  is  dear  but  remote;  he  must  possess 
some  of  those  remembrances  that  make  us  at  the  same  time 
regret  those  whom  the  earth  has  swallowed,  and  smile  over 
vanished  joys. 

And  now  the  author  would  have  you  believe  that  for  all 
the  wealth  of  England  he  would  not  extort  from  poetry  even 
one  of  her  fictions  to  add  grace  to  this  narrative.  This  is  a 
true  story,  on  which  you  may  pour  out  the  treasure  of  your 
sensibilities,  if  you  have  any. 

In  these  days  our  language  has  as  many  dialects  as  there 
are  men  in  the  great  human  family.  And  it  is  a  really  curi- 
ous and  interesting  thing  to  listen  to  the  different  views  or 
versions  of  one  and  the  same  thing,  or  event,  as  given  by 
the  various  species  which  make  up  the  monograph  of  the 
Parisian — the  Parisian  being  taken  as  a  generic  term.  Thus 
you  might  ask  a  man  of  the  matter-of-fact  type,  "Do  you 
know  Madame  Firmiani?"  and  this  man  would  interpret 
Madame  Firmiani  by  such  an  inventory  as  this:  *'A  large 
house  in  the  Rue  du  Bac,  rooms  handsomely  furnished,  fine 
pictures,  a  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year  in  good  securi- 
ties, and  a  husband  who  was  formerly  receiver-general  in 
the  department  of  Montenotte."  Having  thus  spoken, 
your  matter-of-fact  man — stout  and  roundabout,  almost 
always  dressed  in  black — draws  up  his  lower  lip,  so  as  to 
cover  the  upper  lip,  and  nods  his  head,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"Very  respectable  people,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said  against 
them."  Ask  him  no  more.  Your  matter-of-fact  people  state 


258  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

everything  in  figures,  dividends,  or  real  estate   -a  great  word 
in  their  dictionary. 

Turn  to  your  right,  go  and  question  that  young  man,  who 
belongs  to  the  lounger  species,  and  repeat  your  inquiry. 

"Madame  Firmiani?"  says  he.  "Yes,  yes,  I  know  her 
very  well.  I  go  to  her  evenings.  She  receives  on  Wednes- 
days; a  very  good  house  to  know.  '  Madame  Firmiani  is 
already  metamorphosed  into  a  house.  The  house  is  not  a 
mere  mass  of  stones  architecturally  put  together;  no,  this 
word,  in  the  language  of  the  lounger,  has  no  equivalent. 
And  here  your  lounger,  a  dry-looking  man,-  with  a  pleasant 
smile,  saying  clever  nothings,  but  always  with  more  ac- 
quired wit  than  natural  wit,  bends  to  jour  ear,  and  says 
with  a  knowing  air:  "I  never  saw  Monsieur  Firmiani.  His 
social  position  consists  in  managing  estates  in  Italy.  But 
Madame  Firmiani  is  French,  and  spends  her  income  as  a 
Parisian  should.  She  gives  excellent  tea!  It  is  one  of 
the  few  houses  where  you  really  can  amuse  yourself,  and 
where  everything  they  give  you  is  exquisite.  It  is  very 
difficult  to  get  introduced,  and  the  best  society  is  to  be  seen 
in  her  drawing-rooms."  Then  the  lounger  emphasizes  his 
last  words  by  gravely  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff;  he  applies  it 
to  his  nose  in  little  dabs,  and  seems  to  be  saying:  "I  go  to 
the  house,  but  do  not  count  on  my  introducing  you." 

To  folk  of  this  type  Madame  Firmiani  keeps  a  sort  of  inn 
without  a  sign. 

"Why  on  earth  can  you  want  to  go  to  Madame  Firmi- 
ani's  ?  It  is  as  dull  there  as  it  is  at  Court.  Of  what  use  are 
brains  if  they  do  not  keep  you  out  of  such  drawing-rooms, 
where,  with  poetry  such  as  is  now  current,  you  hear  the 
most  trivial  little  ballad  just  hatched  out." 

You  have  asked  one  of  your  friends  who  comes  under 
the  class  of  petty  autocrats — men  who  would  like  to  have 
the  universe  under  lock  and  key,  and  have  nothing  done 
without  their  leave.  They  are  miserable  at  other  people's 
enjoyment,  can  forgive  nothing  but  vice,  wrong-doing,  and 
nfirmities,  and  want  nothing  but  prote'ges.  Aristocrats  by 


MADAME   FIRMIANI  259 

taste,  they  are  republicans  out  of  spite,  simply  to  discover 
many  inferiors  among  their  equals. 

"Oh,  Madame  Firmiani,  my  dear  fellow,  is  one  of  those 
adorable  women  whom  Nature  feels  to  be  a  sufficient  excuse 
for  all  the  ugly  ones  she  has  created  by  mistake ;  she  is  be- 
witching, she  is  kind !  I  should  like  to  be  in  power,  to  be 
king,  to  have  millions  of  money,  solely  (and  three  words  are 
whispered  in  your  ear).  Shall  I  introduce  you  to  her?" 

This  young  man  is  a  Schoolboy,  known  for  his  audacious 
bearing  among  men  and  his  extreme  shyness  in  private. 

"Madame  Firmiani  I"  cries  another,  twirling  his  cane 
in  the  air.  "I  will  tell  you  what  I  think  of  her.  She  is  a 
woman  of  between  thirty  and  thirty-five,  face  a  little  passfo, 
fine  eyes,  a  flat  figure,  a  worn  contralto  voice,  dresses  a  great 
deal,  rouges  a  little,  manners  charming;  in  short,  my  dear 
fellow,  the  remains  of  a  pretty  woman  which  are  still  worthy 
of  a  passion. ' ' 

This  verdict  is  pronounced  by  a  specimen  of  the  genus 
Coxcomb,  who,  having  just  breakfasted,  does  not  weigh  his 
words,  and  is  going  out  riding.  At  such  moments  a  coxcomb 
is  pitiless. 

"She  has  a  collection  of  magnificent  pictures  in  her 
house.  Go  and  see  her,"  says  another;  "nothing  can  be 
finer." 

Y"ou  have  come  upon  the  species  Amateur.  This  individ- 
ual quits  you  to  go  to  Perignon's,  or  to  Tripet's.  To  him 
Madame  Firmiani  is  a  number  of  painted  canvases. 

A  WIFE. — "Madame  Firmiani?  I  will  not  have  you  go 
there."  This  phrase  is  the  most  suggestive  view  of  all. — 
Madame  Firmiani!  A  dangerous  woman!  A  siren!  She 
dresses  well,  has  good  taste;  she  spoils  the  night's  rest  of 
every  wife. — The  speaker  is  of  the  species  Shrew. 

AN  ATTACHE  TO  AN  EMBASSY. — "Madame  Firmiani? 
From  Antwerp,  is  not  she?  I  saw  that  woman,  very  hand- 
some, about  ten  years  ago.  She  was  then  at  Home." 

Men  of  the  order  of  Attache's  have  a  mania  for  utterances 
a  la  Talleyrand,  their  wit  is  often  so  subtle  that  their  percep- 


260 

tion  is  imperceptible.  They  are  like  those  Milliard  players 
who  miss  the  balls  with  infinite  skill.  These  men  are  not 
generally  great  talkers;  but  when  they  talk  it  is  of  nothing 
luss  than  Spain,  Vienna,  Italy,  or  St.  Petersburg.  The  names 
of  countries  act  on  them  like  springs;  you  press  them,  and 
the  machinery  plays  all  its  tunes. 

"Does  not  that  Madame  Firmiani  see  a  great  deal  of  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Germain?"  This  is  asked  by  a  person  who 
desires  claims  to  distinction.  She  adds  a  de  to  everybody's 
name — to  Monsieur  Dupin,  senior,  to  Monsieur  Lafayette; 
she  flings  it  right  and  left  and  spatters  people  ^vith  it.  She 
spends  her  life  in  anxieties  as  to  what  is  correct;  bat,  for  her 
sins,  she  lives  in  the  unfashionable  Marais,  and  her  husband 
was  an  attorney — but  an  attorney  in  the  King's  Court. 

"Madame  Firmiani,  Monsieur?  I  do  not  know  her." 
This  man  is  of  the  class  of  Dukes.  He  recognizes  no 
woman  who  has  not  been  presented.  Excuse  him;  he  was 
created  Duke  by  Napoleon. 

"Madame  Firmiani  ?  Was  she  not  a  singer  at  the  Italian 
opera  house?" — A  man  of  the  genus  Simpleton.  The  indi- 
viduals of  this  genus  must  have  an  answer  to  everything. 
They  would  rather  speak  calumnies  than  be  silent. 

Two  OLD  LADIES  (the  wives  of  retired  lawyers).  THE 
FlEST  (she  has  a  cap  with  bows  of  ribbon,  her  face  is 
wrinkled,  her  nose  sharp;  she  holds  a  prayer-book,  and 
her  voice  is  harsh). — "What  was  her  maiden  name? — this 
Madame  Firmiani?" 

THE  SECOND  (she  has  a  little  red  face  like  a  lady-apple, 
and  a  gentle  voice). — "She  was  a  Cadignan,  my  dear,  niece 
of  the  old  Prince  de  Cadignan,  and  cousin,  consequently,  to 
the  Due  de  Maufrigneuse. " 

Madame  Firmiani  then  is  a  Cadignan.  Bereft  of  virtues, 
fortune,  and  youth,  she  would  still  be  a  Cadignan;  that,  like 
a  prejudice,  is  always  rich  and  living. 

AN  ECCENTRIC. — "My  dear  fellow,  I  never  saw  any  clogs 
in  her  anteroom;  you  may  go  to  her  house  without  compro- 
mising yourself,  and  play  there  without  hesitation;  for  if 


MADAME   FIRMIANI  261 

there  should  be  any  rogues,  they  will  be  people  of  quality, 
consequently  there  is  no  quarrelling. ' ' 

AN  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  SPECIES  OBSERVER. — 'Tou  go 
to  Madame  Firmiani's,  my  dear  fellow,  and  you  find  a 
handsome  woman  lounging  indolently  by  the  fire.  She 
will  scarcely  move  from  her  chair;  she  rises  only  to  greet 
women,  or  ambassadors,  or  dukes — people  of  importance. 
She  is  very  gracious,  she  charms  you,  she  talks  well,  and 
likes  to  talk  of  everything.  She  bears  every  indication  of 
a  passionate  soul,  but  she  is  credited  with  too  many  adorers 
to  have  a  lover.  If  suspicion  rested  on  only  two  or  three 
intimate  visitors,  we  might  know  which  was  her  cavaliers 
servente.  But  she  is  all  mystery;  she  is  married,  and  we 
have  never  seen  her  husband;  Monsieur  Firmiani  is  purely 
a  creature  of  fancy,  like  the  third  horse  we  are  made  to  pay 
for  when  travelling  post,  and  which  we  never  see;  Madame, 
if  you  believe  the  professionals,  has  the  finest  contralto 
voice  in  Europe,  and  has  not  sung  three  times  since  she 
came  to  Paris;  she  receives  numbers  of  people,  and  goes 
nowhere. ' ' 

The  Observer  speaks  as  an  oracle.  His  words,  his  anec- 
dotes, his  quotations  must  all  be  accepted  as  truth,  or  you 
risk  being  taken  for  a  man  without  knowledge  of  the  world, 
without  capabilities.  He  will  slander  you  lightly  in  twenty 
drawing-rooms,  where  he  is  as  essential  as  the  first  piece  in 
the  bill — pieces  so  often  played  to  the  benches,  but  which 
once  upon  a  time  were  successful.  The  Observer  is  a  man 
of  forty,  never  dines  at  home,  and  professes  not  to  be  dan- 
gerous to  women;  he  wears  powder  and  a  maroon-colored 
coat;  he  can  always  have  a  seat  in  various  boxes  at  the 
Theatre  des  Bouffons.  He  is  sometimes  mistaken  for  a  para- 
site, bat  he  has  held  too  high  positions  to  be  suspected  of 
sponging,  and,  indeed,  possesses  an  estate,  in  a  department 
of  which  the  name  has  never  leaked  out. 

"Madame  Firmiani?  Why,  my  dear  boy,  she  was  a  mis- 
tress of  Murat's. ' '  This  gentleman  is  a  Contradictory.  They 
supply  the  errata  to  every  memory,  rectify  every  fact,  bet 


262  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

you  a  hundred  to  one,  are  cock-sure  of  everything.  You 
catch  them  out  in  a  single  evening  in  flagrant  delicts  of 
ubiquity.  They  assert  that  they  were  in  Paris  at  the  time 
of  Mallet's  conspiracy,  forgetting  that  half  an  hour  before 
they  had  crossed  the  Beresina.  The  Contradictories  are  al- 
most all  members  of  the  Legion  of  Honor;  they  talk  very 
loud,  have  receding  foreheads,  and  play  high. 

"Madame  Firmiani,  a  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year? 
Are  you  mad  ?  Eeally  some  people  scatter  thousands  a  year 
with  the  liberality  of  authors,  to  whom  it  costs  nothing  to 
give  their  heroines  handsome  fortunes.  But  Madame  Firmi- 
ani is  a  flirt  who  ruined  a  young  fellow  the  other  day,  and 
hindered  him  from  making  a  very  good  marriage.  If  she 
were  not  handsome,  she  would  be  penniless." 

This  speaker  you  recognize:  he  is  one  of  the  Envious, 
and  we  will  not  sketch  his  least  feature.  The  species  is  as 
well  known  as  that  of  the  domestic  felis.  How  is  the  per- 
petuity of  envy  to  be  explained  ?  A  vice  which  is  wholly 
unprofitable  I 

People  of  fashion,  literary  people,  very  good  people,  and 
people  of  every  kind  were,  in  the  month  of  January,  1824, 
giving  out  so  many  different  opinions  on  Madame  Firmiani 
that  it  would  be  tiresome  to  report  them  all.  We  have  only 
aimed  at  showing  that  a  man  wishing  to  know  her,  without 
choosing,  or  being  able,  to  go  to  her  house,  would  have  been 
equally  justified  in  the  belief  that  she  was  a  widow  or  a  wife 
— silly  or  witty,  virtuous  or  immoral,  rich  or  poor,  gentle  or 
devoid  of  soul,  handsome  or  ugly;  in  fact,  there  were  as  many 
Mesdames  Firmiani  as  there  are  varieties  in  social  life,  or 
sects  in  the  Catholic  Church.  Frightful  thought!  We  are 
all  like  lithographed  plates,  of  which  an  endless  number  of 
copies  are  taken  off  by  slander.  These  copies  resemble  or 
differ  from  the  original  by  touches  so  imperceptibly  slight 
that,  but  for  the  calumnies  of  our  friends  and  the  witticisms 
of  newspapers,  reputation  would  depend  on  the  balance 
struck  by  each  hearer  between  the  limping  truth  and  the 
lies  to  which  Parisian  wit  lends  wings. 


MADAME   FIRMIANI  263 

Madame  Firmiani,  like  many  other  women  of  dignity  and 
noble  pride,  who  close  their  hearts  as  a  sanctuary  and  scorn 
the  world,  might  have  been  very  hardly  judged  by  Monsieur 
de  Bourbonne,  an  old  gentleman  of  fortune,  who  had  thought 
a  good  deal  about  her  during  the  past  winter.  As  it  hap- 
pened, this  gentleman  belonged  to  the  Provincial  Land- 
owner class,  folk  who  are  accustomed  to  inquire  into  every- 
thing, and  to  make  bargains  with  peasants.  In  this  business 
a  man  grows  keen-witted  in  spite  of  himself,  as  a  soldier,  in 
the  long  run,  acquires  the  courage  of  routine.  This  inquirer, 
a  native  of  Touraine,  and  not  easily  satisfied  by  the  Paris 
dialects,  was  a  very  honorable  gentleman  who  rejoiced  in 
a  nephew,  his  sole  heir,  for  whom  he  planted  his  poplars. 
Their  more  than  natural  affection  gave  rise  to  much  evil- 
speaking,  which  individuals  of  the  various  species  of  Tou- 
rangeau  formulated  with  much  mother  wit;  but  it  would  be 
useless  to  record  it;  it  would  pale  before  that  of  Parisian 
tongues.  When  a  man  can  think  of  his  heir  without  dis- 
pleasure, as  he  sees  fine  rows  of  poplars  improving  every 
day,  his  affection  increases  with  each  spadeful  of  earth  he 
turns  at  the  foot  of  his  trees.  Though  such  phenomena  of 
sensibility  may  be  uncommon,  they  still  are  to  be  met  with 
in  Touraine. 

This  much-loved  nephew,  whose  name  was  Octave  de 
Camps,  was  descended  from  the  famous  Abbe*  de  Camps,  so 
well  known  to  the  learned,  or  to  the  bibliomaniacs,  which 
Is  not  -the  same  thing. 

Provincial  folk  have  a  disagreeable  habit  of  regarding 
young  men  who  sell  their  reversions  with  a  sort  of  respect- 
able horror.  This  Gothic  prejudice  is  bad  for  speculation, 
which  the  Government  has  hitherto  found  it  necessary  to 
encourage.  Now,  without  consulting  his  uncle,  Octave  had 
on  a  sudden  disposed  of  an  estate  in  favor  of  the  speculative 
builders.  The  chateau  of  Yillaines  would  have  been  demol- 
ished but  for  the  offers  made  by  his  old  uncle  to  the  repre- 
sentatives of  the  demolishing  fraternity.  To  add  to  the  tes- 
tator's wrath,  a  friend  of  Octave's,  a  distant  relation,  one  of 


264  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

those  cousins  with  small  wealth  and  great  cunning,  who  lead 
their  prudent  neighbors  to  say,  "I  should  not  like  to  go  to 
law  with  him !"  had  called,  by  chance,  on  Monsieur  de  Bour- 
bonne  and  informed  him  that  his  nephew  was  ruined.  Mon- 
sieur Octave  de  Camps,  after  dissipating  his  fortune  for  a 
certain  Madame  Firmiani,  and  not  daring  to  confess  his  sins, 
had  been  reduced  to  giving  lessons  in  mathematics,  pending 
his  coming  into  his  uncle's  leavings.  This  distant  cousin — 
a  sort  of  Charles  Moor — had  not  been  ashamed  of  giving  this 
disastrous  news  to  the  old  country  gentleman  at  the  hour 
when,  sitting  before  his  spacious  hearth,  he  was  digesting  a 
copious  provincial  dinner.  But  would-be  legatees  do  not  get 
rid  of  an  uncle  so  easily  as  they  could  wish.  This  uncle, 
thanks  to  his  obstinacy,  refusing  to  believe  the  distant  cousin, 
came  out  victorious  over  the  indigestion  brought  on  by  the 
biography  of  his  nephew.  Some  blows  fall  on  the  heart,  oth- 
ers on  the  brain;  the  blow  struck  by  the  distant  cousin  fell 
on  the  stomach,  and  produced  little  effect,  as  the  good  man 
had  a  strong  one. 

Monsieur  de  Bourbonne,  as  a  worthy  disciple  of  Saint 
Thomas,  came  to  Paris  without  telling  Octave,  and  tried  to 
get  information  as  to  his  heir's  insolvency.  The  old  gentle- 
man, who  had  friends  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain — the 
Listomeres,  the  Lenoncourts,  and  the  Vandenesses — heard 
so  much  slander,  so  much  that  was  true,  and  so  much  that 
was  false  concerning  Madame  Firmiani,  that  he  determined 
to  call  on  her,  under  the  name  of  Monsieur  de  Rouxellay, 
the  name  of  his  place.  The  prudent  old  man  took  care,  in 
going  to  study  Octave's  mistress — as  she  was  said  to  be — to 
choose  an  evening  when  he  knew  that  the  young  man  was 
engaged  on  work  to  be  well  paid  for;  for  Madame  Firmiani 
was  always  at  home  to  her  young  friend,  a  circumstance  that 
no  one  could  account  for.  As  to  Octave's  ruin,  that,  unfor- 
tunately, was  no  fiction. 

Monsieur  de  Eouxellay  was  not  at  all  like  a  stage  uncle. 
As  an  old  musketeer,  a  man  of  the  best  society,  who  had  his 
successes  in  his  day,  he  knew  how  to  introduce  himself  with 


a  courtly  air,  remembered  the  polished  manners  of  the  past, 
had  a  pretty  wit,  and  understood  almost  all  the  roll  of  nobil- 
ity. Though  he  loved  the  Bourbons  with  noble  frankness, 
believed  in  God  as  gentlemen  believe,  and  read  only  the 
"Quotidienne,"  he  was  by  no  means  so  ridiculous  as  the 
Liberals  of  his  department  would  have  wished.  He  could 
hold  his  own  with  men  about  the  Court,  so  long  as  he  was 
not  expected  to  talk  of  "MoseV  or  the  play,  or  romanticism, 
or  local  color,  or  railways.  He  had  not  got  beyond  Monsieur 
de  Voltaire,  Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Buffon,  Peyronnet,  and 
the  Chevalier  Orluck,  the  Queen's  private  musician. 

"Madame,"  said  he  to  the  Marquise  de  Listoxnere,  to 
whom  he  had  given  his  arm  to  go  into  Madame  Firmiani'g 
room,  ''if  this  woman  is  my  nephew's  mistress,  I  pity  her. 
How  can  she  bear  to  live  in  the  midst  of  luxury  and  know 
that  he  is  in  a  garret  ?  Has  she  no  soul  ?  Octave  is  a  fool 
to  have  invested  the  price  of  the  estate  of  Villaines  in  the 
heart  of  a — " 

Monsieur  de  Bourbonne  was  of  a  Fossil  species,  and  spoke 
only  the  language  of  a  past  day. 

"But  suppose  he  had  lost  it  at  play?" 

"Well.  Madame,  he  would  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
playing." 

"You  think  he  has  had  no  pleasure  for  his  money?— 
Look,  here  is  Madame  Firmiani." 

The  old  uncle's  brightest  memories  paled  at  the  sight  of 
his  nephew's  supposed  mistress.  His  anger  died  in  a  polite 
speech  wrung  from  him  by  the  presence  of  Madame  Firmiani, 
By  one  of  these  chances  which  come  only  to  pretty  women, 
it  was  a  moment  when  all  her  beauties  shone  with  particular 
brilliancy,  the  result,  perhaps,  of  the  glitter  of  waxlighte,  of 
an  exquisitely  simple  dress,  of  an  indefinable  reflection  from 
the  elegance  in  which  she  lived  and  moved.  Only  long  study 
of  the  petty  revolutions  of  an  evening  party  in  a  Paris  salon 
can  enable  one  to  appreciate  the  imperceptible  shades  that 
can  tinge  and  change  a  woman's  face.  There  are  moments 
when<  pleased  with  her  drees,  feeling  herself  brilliant,  happy 

VoL  A.  BAIZAO—  12 


2G6  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

at  being  admired  and  seeing  herself  the  queen  of  a  room  full 
of  remarkable  men  all  smiling  at  her,  a  Parisian  is  conscious 
of  her  beauty  and  grace;  she  grows  the  lovelier  by  all  the 
looks  she  meets;  they  give  her  animation,  but  their  mute 
homage  is  transmitted  by  subtle  glances  to  the  man  she 
loves.  In  such  a  moment  a  woman  is  invested,  as  it  were, 
with  supernatural  power,  and  becomes  a  witch,  an  uncon- 
scious coquette;  she  involuntarily  inspires  the  passion  which 
is  a  secret  intoxication  to  herself,  she  has  smiles  and  looks 
that  are  fascinating.  If  this  excitement  which  comes  from 
the  soul  lends  attractiveness  even  to  ugly  women,  with  what 
splendor  does  it  not  clothe  a  naturally  elegant  creature,  finely 
made,  fair,  fresh,  bright- eyed,  and,  above  all,  dressed  with 
such  taste  as  artists  and  even  her  most  spiteful  rivals  must 
admit. 

Have  you  ever  met,  for  your  happiness,  some  woman 
whose  harmonious  tones  give  to  her  speech  the  charm  that 
is  no  less  conspicuous  in  her  manners,  who  knows  how  to 
talk  and  to  be  silent,  who  cares  for  you  with  delicate  feel- 
ing, whose  words  are  happily  chosen  and  her  language  pure? 
Her  banter  natters  you,  her  criticism  does  not  sting;  she 
neither  preaches  nor  disputes,  but  is  interested  in  leading  a 
discussion,  and  stops  it  at  the  right  moment.  Her  manner 
is  friendly  and  gay,  her  politeness  is  unforced,  her  eagerness 
to  please  is  not  servile ;  she  reduces  respect  to  a  mere  gentle 
shade;  she  never  tires  you,  and  leaves  you  satisfied  with  her 
and  yourself.  You  will  see  her  gracious  presence  stamped 
on  the  things  she  collects  about  her.  In  her  home  every- 
thing charms  the  eye,  and  you  breathe,  as  it  seems,  your 
native  air.  This  woman  is  quite  natural.  You  never  feel 
an  effort,  she  flaunts  nothing,  her  feelings  are  expressed  with 
simplicity  because  they  are  genuine.  Though  candid,  she 
never  wounds  the  most  sensitive  pride;  she  accepts  men  as 
God  made  them,  pitying  the  vicious,  forgiving  defects  and 
absurdities,  sympathizing  with  every  age,  and  vexed  with 
nothing  because  she  has  the  tact  to  forfend  everything.  At 
once  tender  and  lively,  she  first  constrains  and  then  con- 


MADAME   FIRMIANI  267 

soles  you.  You  love  her  so  truly  that  if  this  angel  does 
wrong  you  are  ready  to  justify  her. — Then  you  know  Madame 
Firmiani. 

By  the  time  old  Bourbonne  had  talked  with  this  woman 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  sitting  by  her  side,  his  nephew  was 
absolved.  He  understood  that,  true  or  false,  Octave's  con- 
nection with  Madame  Firmiani  no  doubt  covered  some  mys- 
tery. Returning  to  the  illusions  of  his  youth,  and  judging 
of  Madame  Firmiani's  heart  by  her  beauty,  the  old  gentle- 
man thought  that  a  woman  so  sure  of  her  dignity  as  she 
seemed  was  incapable  of  a  base  action.  Her  black  eyes 
spoke  of  so  much  peace  of  mind,  the  lines  of  her  face  were 
so  noble,  the  forms  so  pure,  and  the  passion  of  which  she  was 
accused  seemed  to  weigh  so  little  on  her  heart,  that,  as  he 
admired  all  the  pledges  given  to  love  and  to  virtue  by  that 
adorable  countenance,  the  old  man  said  to  himself,  "My 
nephew  has  committed  some  folly." 

Madame  Firmiani  owned  to  twenty -five.  But  the  Matter- 
of -facts  could  prove  that,  having  been  married  in  1813  at  the 
age  of  sixteen,  she  must  be  at  least  eight-and-twenty  in  1825. 
Nevertheless  the  same  persons  declared  that  she  had  never  at 
any  period  of  her  life  been  so  desirable,  so  perfectly  a  woman. 
She  had  no  children,  and  had  never  had  any;  the  hypothet- 
ical Firmiani,  a  respectable  man  of  forty  in  1813,  had,  it  was 
said,  only  his  name  and  fortune  to  offer  her.  So  Madame 
Firmiani  had  come  to  the  age  when  a  Parisian  best  under- 
stands what  passion  is,  and  perhaps  longs  for  it  innocently 
in  her  unemployed  hours:  she  had  everything  that  the  world 
can  sell,  or  loan,  or  give.  The  Attaches  declared  she  knew 
everything,  the  Contradictories  said  she  had  yet  many  things 
to  learn;  the  Observers  noticed  that  her  hands  were  very 
white,  her  foot  very  small,  her  movements  a  little  too  undu- 
lating; but  men  of  every  species  envied  or  disputed  Octave's 
good  fortune,  agreeing  that  she  was  the  most  aristocratic 
beauty  in  Paris. 

Still  young,  rich,  a  perfect  musician,  witty,  exquisite; 
welcomed,  for  the  sake  of  the  Cadignans,  to  whom  she  was 


268  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

related  through  her  mother,  by  the  Princesse  de  Blamont- 
Chauvry,  the  oracle  of  the  aristocratic  quarter;  beloved  by 
her  rivals  the  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse  her  cousin,  the  Mar- 
quise d'Espard,  and  Madame  de  Macumer,  she  fluttered  every 
vanity  which  feeds  or  excites  love.  And,  indeed,  she  was 
the  object  of  too  many  desires  not  to  be  the  victim  of  fash- 
ionable detraction  and  those  delightful  calumnies  which  are 
wittily  hinted  behind  a  fan  or  in  a  whispered  aside.  Hence 
the  remarks  with  which  this  story  opened  were  necessary  to 
mark  the  contrast  between  the  real  Firmiani  and  the  Firmiani 
known  to  the  world.  Though  some  women  forgave  her  for 
being  happy,  others  could  not  overlook  her  respectability; 
now  there  is  nothing  so  terrible,  especially  in  Paris,  as  sus- 
picion without  foundation ;  it  is  impossible  to  kill  it. 

This  sketch  of  a  personality  so  admirable  by  nature  can 
only  give  a  feeble  idea  of  it;  it  would  need  the  brush  of  an 
Ingres  to  represent  the  dignity  of  the  brow,  the  mass  of  fine 
hair,  the  majesty  of  the  eyes,  all  the  thoughts  betrayed  by 
the  varying  hues  of  the  complexion.  There  was  something 
of  everything  in  this  woman ;  poets  could  see  in  her  both 
Joan  of  Arc  and  Agnes  Sorel;  but  there  was  also  the  un- 
known woman — the  soul  hidden  behind  this  deceptive  mask 
• — the  soul  of  Eve,  the  wealth  of  evil  and  the  treasures  of 
goodness,  wrong  and  resignation,  crime  and  self-sacrifice — 
the  Dona  Julia  and  Haidee  of  Byron's  "Don  Juan." 

The  old  soldier  very  boldly  remained  till  the  last  in  Ma- 
dame Firmiani's  drawing-room;  she  found  him  quietly  seated 
in  an  armchair,  and  staying  with  the  pertinacity  of  a  fly  that 
must  be  killed  to  be  got  rid  of.  The  clock  marked  two  in 
the  morning. 

"Madame,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  just  as  Madame 
Firmiani  rose  in  the  hope  of  making  her  guest  understand 
that  it  was  her  pleasure  that  he  should  go.  "Madame,  I 
am  Monsieur  Octave  de  Camps'  uncle." 

Madame  Firmiani  at  once  sat  down  again,  and  her  agita- 
tion was  evident.  In  spite  of  his  perspicacity,  the  planter 
of  poplars  could  not  make  up  his  mind  whether  shame  or 


MA  DAME   FIRMIANI  269 

pleasure  made  her  turn  pale.  There  are  pleasures  which  do 
not  exist  without  a  little  coy  bashfulness — delightful  emo- 
tions which  the  chastest  soul  would  fain  keep  behind  a  veil. 
The  more  sensitive  a  woman  is,  the  more  she  lives  to  conceal 
her  soul's  greatest  joys.  Many  women,  incomprehensible  in 
their  exquisite  caprices,  at  times  long  to  hear  a  name  spoken 
by  all  the  world,  while  they  sometimes  would  sooner  bury 
it  in  their  hearts.  Old  Bourbonne  did  not  read  Madame 
Firmiani's  agitation  quite  in  this  light;  but  forgive  him; 
the  country  gentleman  was  suspicious. 

"Indeed,  Monsieur?  "  said  Madame  Firmiani,  with 
one  of  those  clear  and  piercing  looks  in  which  we  men 
can  never  see  anything,  because  they  question  us  too 
keenly. 

"Indeed,  Madame;  and  do  you  know  what  I  have  been 
told — I,  in  the  depths  of  the  country?  That  my  nephew 
has  ruined  himself  for  you ;  and  the  unhappy  boy  is  in  a 
garret,  while  you  live  here  in  gold  and  silks.  You  will,  I 
hope,  forgive  my  rustic  frankness,  for  it  may  be  useful  to 
you  to  be  informed  of  the  slander." 

"Stop,  Monsieur,"  said  Madame  Firmiani,  interrupting 
the  gentleman  with  an  imperious  gesture,  "1  know  all  that. 
You  are  too  polite  to  keep  the  conversation  to  this  subject 
when  I  beg  you  to  change  it.  You  are  too  gallant,  in  the 
old-fashioned  sense  of  the  word,"  she  added,  with  a  slightly 
ironical  emphasis,  "not  to  acknowledge  that  you  have  no 
right  to  cross-question  me.  However,  it  is  ridiculous  in 
me  to  justify  myself.  I  hope  you  have  a  good  enough 
opinion  of  my  character  to  believe  in  the  utter  contempt  I 
feel  for  money,  though  I  was  married  without  any  fortune 
whatever  to  a  man  who  had  an  immense  fortune.  I  do  not 
know  whether  your  nephew  is  rich  or  poor;  if  I  have  re- 
ceived him,  if  I  still  receive  him,  it  is  because  I  regard 
him  as  worthy  to  move  in  the  midst  of  my  friends.  All 
my  friends,  Monsieur,  respect  each  other;  they  know  that 
I  am  not  so  philosophical  as  to  entertain  people  whom  I 
do  not  esteem.  That,  perhaps,  shows  a  lack  of  charity; 


270  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

but  my  guardian  angel  has  preserved  in  me,  to  this  day, 
an  intense  aversion  for  gossip  and  dishonor." 

Though  her  voice  was  not  quite  firm  at  the  beginning  of 
this  reply,  the  last  words  were  spoken  by  Madame  Firmiani 
with  the  cool  decision  of  Celimbne  rallying  the  Misanthrope. 

"Madame,"  the  Count  resumed  in  a  broken  voice,  "I  am 
an  old  man — I  am  almost  a  father  to  Octave — I  therefore 
must  humbly  crave  your  pardon  beforehand  for  the  only 
question  I  shall  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  you;  and  I  give  you 
my  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman  that  your  reply  will  die 
here,"  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart  with  a  really  re- 
ligious gesture.  "Does  gossip  speak  the  truth;  do  you 
love  Octave?" 

"Monsieur,"  said  she,  "I  should  answer  any  one  else 
with  a  look.  But  you,  since  you  are  almost  a  father  to 
Monsieur  de  Camps,  you  I  will  ask  what  you  would  think 
of  a  woman  who,  in  reply  to  your  question,  should  say, 
Yes?  To  confess  one's  love  to  the  man  we  love — when  he 
loves  us — well,  well;  when  we  are  sure  of  being  loved  for- 
ever, believe  me,  Monsieur,  it  is  an  effort  to  us  and  a  re- 
ward to  him ;  but  to  any  one  else ! — 

Madame  Firmiani  did  not  finish  her  sentence;  she  rose, 
bowed  to  the  good  gentleman,  and  vanished  into  her  private 
rooms,  where  the  sound  of  doors  opened  and  shut  in  succes- 
sion had  language  to  the  ears  of  the  poplar  planter. 

"Damn  it!"  said  he  to  himself,  "what  a  woman!  She  is 
either  a  very  cunning  hussy  or  an  angel' ' ;  and  he  went  down 
to  his  hired  fly  in  the  courtyard,  where  the  horses  were  paw- 
ing the  pavement  in  the  silence.  The  coachman  was  asleep, 
after  having  cursed  his  customer  a  hundred  times. 

Next  morning,  by  about  eight  o'clock,  the  old  gentle- 
man was  mounting  the  stairs  of  a  house  in  the  Rue  de  1'Ob- 
servance,  where  dwelt  Octave  de  Camps.  If  there  was  in 
this  world  a  man  amazed,  it  was  the  young  professor  on 
seeing  his  uncle.  The  key  was  in  the  door,  Octave's  lamp 
was  still  burning;  he  had  sat  up  all  night. 

"Now,  you  rascal,"  said  Monsieur  de  Bourbonne,  seat- 


MADAME   FIRMIAN1  271 

ing  himself  in  an  armchair.  "How  long  has  it  been  the 
fashion  to  make  fools  (speaking  mildly)  of  uncles  who 
have  twenty-six  thousand  francs  a  year  in  good  land  in 
Touraine?  and  that,  when  you  are  sole  heir?  Do  you 
know  that  formerly  such  relations  were  treated  with  re- 
spect? Pray,  have  you  any  fault  to  find  with  me?  Have 
I  bungled  my  business  as  an  uncle?  Have  I  demanded 
your  respect  ?  Have  1  ever  refused  you  money  ?  Have  I 
shut  my  door  in  your  face,  saying  you  had  only  come  to 
see  how  I  was?  Have  you  not  the  most  accommodating, 
the  least  exacting  uncle  in  France? — I  will  not  say  in  Eu- 
rope, it  would  be  claiming  too  much.  You  write  to  me,  or 
you  don't  write.  I  live  on  your  professions  of  affection.  I 
am  laying  out  the  prettiest  estate  in  the  neighborhood,  a 
place  that  is  the  object  of  envy  in  all  the  department;  but 
I  do  not  mean  to  leave  it  to  you  till  the  latest  date  possible 
— a  weakness  that  is  very  pardonable.  And  my  gentle- 
man sells  his  property,  is  lodged  like  a  groom,  has  no 
servants,  keeps  no  style — " 

"My  dear  uncle — " 

"It  is  not  a  case  of  uncle,  but  of  nephew.  I  have  a  right 
to  your  confidence ;  so  have  it  all  out  at  once ;  it  is  the  easi- 
est way,  I  know  by  experience.  Have  you  been  gambling  ? 
Have  you  been  speculating  on  the  Bourse?  Come,  say,  'Un- 
cle, I  am  a  wretch, '  and  we  kiss  and  are  friends.  But  if  you 
tell  me  any  lie  bigger  than  those  I  told  at  your  age,  I  will  sell 
my  property,  buy  an  annuity,  and  go  back  to  the  bad  ways 
of  my  youth,  if  it  is  not  too  late. ' ' 

"Uncle—" 

"I  went  last  night  to  see  your  Madame  Pirmiani,"  said 
the  uncle,  kissing  the  tips  of  all  his  fingers  together.  "She 
is  charming,"  he  went  on.  "You  have  the  king's  warrant 
and  approval,  and  your  uncle's  consent,  if  that  is  any  satis- 
faction to  you.  As  to  the  sanction  of  the  Church,  that  I 
suppose  is  unnecessary — the  sacraments,  no  doubt,  are  too 
costly.  Come;  speak  out.  Is  it  for  her  that  you  have 
ruined  yourself?" 


272  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Yes,  uncle." 

"Ah!  the  hussy!  I  would  have  bet  upon  it.  In  my  day 
a  woman  of  fashion  could  ruin  a  man  more  cleverly  than  any 
of  your  courtesans  of  to-day.  I  saw  in  her  a  resuscitation  of 
the  last  century." 

"Uncle,"  said  Octave,  in  a  voice  that  was  at  once  sad 
and  gentle,  "you  are  under  a  mistake.  Madame  Firmiani 
deserves  your  esteem,  and  all  the  adoration  of  her  ad- 
mirers. ' ' 

"So  hapless  youth  is  always  the  same ! ' '  said  Monsieur 
de  Bourbonne.  "Well,  well!  go  on  in  your  own  way;  tell 
me  all  the  old  stories  once  more.  At  the  same  time,  you 
know,  I  dare  say,  that  I  am  no  chicken  in  such  matters." 

"My  dear  uncle,  here  is  a  letter  which  will  explain  every- 
thing," replied  Octave,  taking  out  an  elegant  letter-case — her 
gift,  no  doubt.  "When  you  have  read  it  I  will  tell  you  the 
rest,  and  you  will  know  Madame  Firmiani  as  the  world  knows 
her  not." 

"I  have  not  got  my  spectacles,"  said  his  uncle.  "Head 
it  to  me. ' ' 

Octave  began:  "  'My  dear  love — 

"Then  you  are  very  intimate  with  this  woman?" 

"Why,  yes,  uncle?" 

' '  And  you  have  not  quarrelled  ? ' ' 

1 '  Quarrelled ! ' '  echoed  Octave  in  surprise.  ' '  We  are  mar- 
ried— at  Gretna  Green." 

"Well,  then,  why  do  you  dine  for  forty  sous?" 

"Let  me  proceed." 

"Very  true.     I  am  listening." 

Octave  took  up  the  letter  again,  and  could  not  read  cer- 
tain passages  without  strong  emotion. 

"  'My  beloved  husband,  you  ask  me  the  reason  of  my 
melancholy.  Has  it  passed  from  my  soul  into  my  face,  or 
have  you  only  guessed  it?  And  why  should  you  not? 
Our  hearts  are  so  closely  united.  Besides,  I  cannot  lie, 
though  that  perhaps  is  a  misfortune.  One  of  the  condi- 
tions of  being  loved  is,  in  a  woman,  to  be  always  caressing 


MADAME   FIRMIANI  278 

and  gay.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  deceive  you;  but  I  would 
not  do  so,  not  even  if  it  were  to  increase  or  to  preserve  the 
happiness  you  give  me — you  lavish  on  me — under  which 
you  overwhelm  me.  Oh,  my  dear,  my  love  carries  with  it 
so  much  gratitude!  And  I  must  love  forever,  without 
measure.  Yes,  I  must  always  be  proud  of  you.  Our 
glory — a  woman's  glory — is  all  in  the  man  she  loves.  Es- 
teem, consideration,  honor,  are  they  not  all  his  who  has 
conquered  everything?  Well,  and  my  angel  has  fallen. 
Yes,  my  dear,  your  last  confession  has  dimmed  my  past 
happiness.  From  that  moment  I  have  felt  myself  humbled 
through  you — you,  whom  I  believed  to  be  the  purest  of 
men,  as  you  are  the  tenderest  and  most  loving.  I  must 
have  supreme  confidence  in  your  still  childlike  heart  to 
make  an  avowal  which  costs  me  so  dear.  What,  poor  dar- 
ling, your  father  stole  his  fortune,  and  you  know  it,  and 
you  keep  it!  And  you  could  tell  me  of  this  attorney's 
triumph  in  a  room  full  of  the  dumb  witnesses  of  our  love, 
and  you  are  a  gentleman,  and  you  think  yourself  noble, 
and  I  am  yours,  and  you  are  two-and-twenty!  How  mon- 
strous all  through! 

"  'I  have  sought  excuses  for  you;  I  have  ascribed  your 
indifference  to  your  giddy  youth;  I  know  there  is  still 
much  of  the  child  in  you.  Perhaps  you  have  never  yet 
thought  seriously  of  what  is  meant  by  wealth,  and  by  hon- 
esty. Oh,  your  laughter  hurt  me  so  much!  Only  think, 
there  is  a  family,  ruined,  always  in  grief,  girls  perhaps, 
who  curse  you  day  by  day,  an  old  man  who  says  to  him- 
self every  night,  "I  should  not  lack  bread  if  Monsieur  de 
Camps'  father  had  only  been  an  honest  man!"  ' 

"What!"  exclaimed  Monsieur  de  Bourbonne,  interrupt- 
ing him,  "were  you  such  an  idiot  as  to  tell  that  woman  the 
story  of  your  father's  affair  with  the  Bourgneufs?  Women 
better  understand  spending  a  fortune  than  making  one — " 

"They  understand  honesty.     Let  me  go  on,  uncle! 

' '  '  Octave,  no  power  on  earth  is  authorized  to  garble  the 
language  of  honor.  Look  into  your  conscience,  and  ask  it 


274  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

by  what  name  to  call  the  action  to  which  you  owe  your 
riches.'" 

And  the  nephew  looked  at  his  uncle,  who  beat  his  head. 

"  'I  will  not  tell  you  all  the  thoughts  that  beset  me;  they 
can  all  be  reduced  to  one,  which  is  this:  I  cannot  esteem  a 
man  who  knowingly  soils  himself  for  a  sum  of  money  whether 
large  or  small.  Five  francs  stolen  at  play,  or  six  times  a 
hundred  thousand  francs  obtained  by  legal  trickery,  dis- 
grace a  man  equally.  I  must  tell  you  all:  I  feel  myself 
sullied  by  a  love  which  till  now  was  all  my  joy.  From  the 
bottom  of  my  soul  there  comes  a  voice  I  cannot  stifle.  I 
have  wept  to  find  that  my  conscience  is  stronger  than  my 
love.  You  might  commit  a  crime,  and  I  would  hide  you 
in  my  bosom  from  human  justice  if  I  could;  but  my  de- 
votion would  go  no  further.  Love,  my  dearest,  is,  in  a 
woman,  the  most  unlimited  confidence,  joined  to  I  know 
not  what  craving  to  reverence  and  adore  the  being  to  whom 
she  belongs.  I  have  never  conceived  of  love  but  as  a  fire 
in  which  the  noblest  feelings  were  yet  further  purified — a 
fire  which  develops  them  to  the  utmost. 

"  'I  have  but  one  thing  more  to  say:  Come  to  me  poor, 
and  I  shall  love  you  twice  as  much  if  possible ;  if  not,  give 
me  up.  If  I  see  you  no  more,  I  know  what  is  left  to  me 
to  do. 

"  'But,  now,  understand  me  clearly,  I  will  not  have  you 
make  restitution  because  I  desire  it.  Consult  your  con- 
science. This  is  an  act  of  justice,  and  must  not  be  done 
as  a  sacrifice  to  love.  I  am  your  wife,  and  not  your  mis- 
tress; the  point  is  not  to  please  me,  but  to  inspire  me  with 
the  highest  esteem.  If  I  have  misunderstood,  if  you  have 
not  clearly  explained  your  father's  action,  in  short,  if  you 
can  regard  your  fortune  as  legitimately  acquired — and  how 
gladly  would  I  persuade  myself  that  you  deserve  no  blame 
— decide  as  the  voice  of  conscience  dictates ;  act  wholly  for 
yourself.  A  man  who  truly  loves,  as  you  love  me,  has  too 
high  a  respect  for  all  the  holy  inspiration  he  may  get  from 
his  wife  to  be  dishonorable. 


MADAME   FIRMIANI  275 

"  'I  blame  myself  now  for  all  I  have  written.  A  word 
would  perhaps  have  been  enough,  and  my  preaching  in- 
stinct has  carried  me  away.  So  I  should  like  to  be  scolded 
— not  much,  but  a  little.  My  dear,  between  you  and  me 
are  not  you  the  Power!  You  only  should  detect  your  own 
faults.  Well,  Master  mine,  can  you  say  I  understand  noth- 
ing about  political  discussion?' 

"Well,  uncle?"  said  Octave,  whose  eyes  were  full  of 
tears. 

"I  see  more  writing,  finish  it." 

"Oh,  there  is  nothing  further  but  such  things  as  only  a 
lover  may  read." 

"Very  good,"  said  the  old  man.  "Very  good,  my  dear 
boy.  I  was  popular  with  the  women  in  my  day;  but  I  would 
have  you  to  believe  that  I  too  have  loved;  et  ego  in  Arcadid. 
Still,  I  cannot  imagine  why  you  give  lessons  in  mathematics." 

"My  dear  uncle,  I  am  your  nephew.  Is  not  that  as  much 
as  to  say  that  I  have  made  some  inroads  on  the  fortune  left 
to  me  by  my  father  ?  After  reading  that  letter  a  complete 
revolution  took  place  in  me,  in  one  instant  I  paid  up  the 
arrears  of  remorse.  I  could  never  describe  to  you  the  state 
in  which  I  was.  As  I  drove  my  cab  to  the  Bois  a  voice 
cried  to  me,  'Is  that  horse  yours?'  As  I  ate  my  dinner,  I 
said  to  myself,  'Have  you  not  stolen  the  food?'  I  was 
ashamed  of  myself.  My  honesty  was  ardent  in  proportion 
to  its  youth.  First  I  flew  off  to  Madame  Firmiani.  Ah, 
my  dear  uncle,  that  day  I  had  such  joys  of  heart,  such 
raptures  of  soul  as  were  worth  millions.  With  her  I  cal- 
culated how  much  I  owed  the  Bourgneuf  family;  and  I 
sentenced  myself,  against  Madame  Firmiani's  advice,  to 
pay  them  interest  at  the  rate  of  three  per  cent.  But  my 
whole  fortune  was  not  enough  to  refund  the  sum.  We  were 
both  of  us  lovers  enough — husband  and  wife  enough — for 
her  to  offer  and  for  me  to  accept  her  savings — " 

"What,  besides  all  her  virtues,  that  adorable  woman  can 
save  money!"  cried  the  uncle. 

"Do  not  laugh  at  her.     Her  position  compels  her  to 


276  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

some  thrift.  Her  husband  went  to  Greece  in  1820,  and 
died  about  three  years  ago;  but  to  this  day  it  has  been 
impossible  to  get  legal  proof  of  his  death,  or  to  lay  hands 
on  the  will  he  no  doubt  made  in  favor  of  his  wife;  this  im- 
portant document  was  stolen,  lost,  or  mislaid  in  a  country 
where  a  man's  papers  are  not  kept  as  they  are  in  France, 
nor  is  there  a  Consul.  So,  not  knowing  whether  she  may 
not  some  day  have  to  reckon  with  other  and  malignant 
heirs,  she  is  obliged  to  be  extremely  careful,  for  she  does 
not  wish  to  have  to  give  up  her  wealth  as  Chateaubriand 
has  just  given  up  the  Ministry.  Now  I  mean  to  earn  a 
fortune  that  shall  be  mine,  so  as  to  restore  my  wife  to 
opulence  if  she  should  be  ruined." 

"And  you  never  told  me — you  never  came  to  me.  My 
dear  nephew,  believe  me  I  love  you  well  enough  to  pay 
your  honest  debts,  your  debts  as  a  gentleman.  I  am  the 
Uncle  of  the  fifth  act — I  will  be  revenged." 

"I  know  your  revenges,  uncle;  but  let  me  grow  rich  by 
my  own  toil.  If  you  wish  to  befriend  me,  allow  me  a  thou- 
sand crowns  a  year  until  I  need  capital  for  some  business.  I 
declare  at  this  moment  I  am  so  happy  that  all  I  care  about 
is  to  live.  I  give  lessons  that  I  may  be  no  burden  on  any 
one. 

"Ah,  if  you  could  but  know  with  what  delight  I  made 
restitution.  After  making  some  inquiries  I  found  the 
Bourgneufs  in  misery  and  destitution.  They  were  living 
at  Saint- Germain  in  a  wretched  house.  The  old  father 
was  manager  in  a  lottery  office;  the  two  girls  did  the 
work  of  the  house  and  kept  the  accounts.  The  mother 
was  almost  always  ill.  The  two  girls  are  charming,  but 
they  have  learned  by  bitter  experience  how  little  the 
world  cares  for  beauty  without  fortune.  What  a  picture 
did  I  find  there!  If  I  went  to  the  house  as  the  accom- 
plice in  a  crime,  I  came  out  of  it  an  honest  man,  and  I 
have  purged  my  father's  memory.  I  do  not  judge  him, 
uncle;  there  is  in  a  lawsuit  an  eagerness,  a  passion  which 
may  sometimes  blind  the  most  honest  man  alive.  Lawyers 


MADAME   FIRMIANI  277 

know  how  to  legitimize  the  most  preposterous  claims;  there 
are  syllogisms  in  law  to  humor  the  errors  of  conscience,  and 
judges  have  a  right  to  make  mistakes.  My  adventure  was 
a  perfect  drama.  To  have  played  the  part  of  Providence, 
to  have  fulfilled  one  of  these  hopeless  wishes:  'If  only 
twenty  thousand  francs  a  year  could  drop  from  heaven  P 
— a  wish  we  all  have  uttered  in  jest;  to  see  a  sublime  look 
of  gratitude,  amazement  and  admiration  take  the  place  of 
a  glance  fraught  with  curses;  to  bring  opulence  into  the 
midst  of  a  family  sitting  round  a  turf  fire  in  the  evening, 
by  the  light  of  a  wretched  lamp — No,  words  cannot  paint 
such  a  scene.  My  excessive  justice  to  them  seemed  unjust. 
Well,  if  there  be  a  Paradise,  my  father  must  now  be  happy. 
— As  for  myself,  I  am  loved  as  man  was  never  loved  before. 
Madame  Firmiani  has  given  me  more  than  happiness;  she 
has  taught  me  a  delicacy  of  feeling  which  perhaps  I  lacked. 
Indeed,  I  call  her  Dear  Conscience,  one  of  those  loving 
names  that  are  the  outcome  of  certain  secret  harmonies  of 
spirit.  Honesty  is  said  to  pay;  I  hope  ere  long  to  be  rich 
myself;  at  this  moment  I  am  bent  on  solving  a  great  in- 
dustrial problem,  and  if  I  succeed  I  shall  make  millions." 

"My  boy,  you  have  your  mother's  soul,"  said  the  old 
man,  hardly  able  to  restrain  the  tears  that  rose  at  the  re- 
membrance of  his  sister. 

At  this  instant,  in  spite  of  the  height  above  the  ground 
of  Octave's  room,  the  young  man  and  his  uncle  heard  the 
noise  of  a  carriage  driving  up. 

"It  is  she!     I  know  her  horses  by  the  way  they  pull  up." 

And  it  was  not  long  before  Madame  Firmiani  made  her 
appearance. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  with  an  impulse  of  annoyance  on  see- 
ing Monsieur  de  Bourbonne.  "But  our  uncle  is  not  in  the 
way,"  she  went  on  with  a  sudden  smile.  MI  have  come  to 
kneel  at  my  husband's  feet  and  humbly  beseech  him  to  ac- 
cept my  fortune.  I  have  just  received  from  the  Austrian 
Embassy  a  document  proving  Firmiani's  death.  The  paper, 
drawn  up  by  the  kind  offices  of  the  Austrian  envoy  at  Con- 


278  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

stantinople,  is  quite  formal,  and  the  will  which  Firmiani's 
valet  had  in  keeping  for  me  is  subjoined. — There,  you  are 
richer  than  I  am,  for  you  have  there,"  and  she  tapped  her 
husband's  breast,  "treasures  which  only  God  can  add  to." 
Then,  unable  to  disguise  her  happiness,  she  hid  her  face 
in  Octave's  bosom. 

"My  sweet  niece,  we  made  love  when  I  was  young,"  said 
the  uncle,  "but  how  you  love.  You  women  are  all  that  is 
good  and  lovely  in  humanity,  for  you  are  never  guilty  of 
your  faults;  they  always  originate  with  us." 

PAKIS,  February,  1831. 


A  DAUGHTER  OF  EVE 


TO  MADAME  LA  COMTESSE  DE  BOLOGNINI, 
NEE  VIMERCATI 

If  you  remember,  dear  lady,  the  pleasure  your  conver- 
sation gave  to  a  certain  traveller,  making  Paris  live  for 
him  in  Milan,  you  will  not  be  surprised  that  he  should  lay 
one  of  his  works  at  your  feet,  as  a  token  of  gratitude  for  so 
many  delightful  evenings  spent  in  your  society,  nor  that  he 
should  seek  for  it  the  shelter  of  a  name  which,  in  old  times, 
was  given  to  not  a,  few  of  the  tales  by  one  of  your  early 
writers,  beloved  of  the  Milanese.  You  have  an  Eugenie, 
with  more  than  the  promise  of  beauty,  whose  speaking  smile 
proclaims  her  to  have  inherited  from  you  the  most  precious 
gifts  a  woman  can  possess,  and  whose  childhood,  it  is  cer- 
tain, will  be  rich  in  all  those  joys  which  a  harsh  mother 
refused  to  the  Eugenie  of  these  pages.  If  Frenchmen  are 
accused  of  being  frivolous  and  inconstant,  I,  you  see,  am 
Italian  in  my  faithfulness  and  attachment.  How  often,  as 
I  ivrote  the  name  of  Eugenie,  have  my  thoughts  carried  me 
lack  to  the  cool  stuccoed  drawing-room  and  little  garden  of 
the  Vicolo  del  Capuccini,  which  used  to  resound  to  the  dear 
child's  merry  laughter,  to  our  quarrels,  and  our  stories. 
You  have  left  the  Corso  for  the  Tre  Monasteri,  where  I 
know  nothing  of  your  manner  of  life,  and  1  am  forced  to 
picture  you,  no  longer  among  the  pretty  things,  which 
doubtless  still  surround  you,  but  like  one  of  the  beautiful 
heads  of  Carlo  Dolci,  Rafael,  Titian,  or  Allori,  which,  in 
their  remoteness,  seem  to  us  like  abstractions. 

If  this  book  succeed  in  making  its  way  across  the  A  Ips, 
it  will  tell  you  of  the  lively  gratitude  and  respectful  friend- 
ship of 

Your  humble  servant,  De  Balzac. 


PREFACE 

OPINIONS  of  the  larger  division  of  this  book  will  vary  in 
pretty  direct  ratio  with  the  general  taste  of  the  reader  for 
Balzac  in  his  more  sentimental  mood,  and  for  his  delinea- 
tions of  virtuous  or  "honest"  women.  As  is  the  case  with 
the  number  of  the  "Come'die"  which  immediately  succeeds 
it  in  "Scenes  de  la  Vie  Privde, "  I  cannot  say  of  it  that  it 
appeals  to  me  personally  with  any  strong  attraction.  It  is, 
however,  much  later  and  much  more  accomplished  work 
than  "La  Femme  de  Trente  Ans"  and  its  companions.  It 
is  possible  also  that  opinion  may  be  conditioned  by  likes  or 
dislikes  for  novels  written  in  the  form  of  letters,  but  this 
cannot  count  for  very  much.  Some  of  the  best  novels  in 
the  world,  and  some  of  the  worst,  have  taken  this  form,  so 
that  the  form  itself  can  have  had  nothing  necessarily  to  do 
with  their  goodness  and  badness  by  itself. 

Something  of  the  odd  perversity  which  seems  to  make  it 
so  difficult  for  a  French  author  to  imagine  a  woman,  not  nec- 
essarily a  model  of  perfection,  who  combines  love  for  her 
husband  of  the  passionate  kind  with  love  for  her  children 
of  the  animal  sort,  common-sense  and  good  housewifery 
with  freedom  from  the  characteristics  of  the  mere  mena- 
g&re,  interest  in  affairs  and  books  and  things  in  general 
without,  in  the  French  sense,  "dissipation"'  or  neglect  of 
home — appears  in  the  division  of  the  parts  of  Louise  de 
Chaulieu  and  Eenee  de  Maucombe.  I  cannot  think  that 
Balzac  has  improved  his  book,  though  he  has  made  it 
much  easier  to  write,  by  this  separation.  We  should  take 
more  interest  in  Eenee's  nursery — it  is  fair  to  Balzac  to  say 
that  he  was  one  of  the  earliest,  despite  his  lukewarm  affec- 

(281) 


282  PREFACE 

tion  for  things  English,  to  introduce  this  important  apart- 
ment into  a  French  novel — if  she  had  married  her  husband 
less  as  a  matter  of  business,  and  had  regarded  him  with  a 
somewhat  more  romantic  affection ;  and  though  it  is  per- 
haps not  fair  to  look  forward  to  the  "Depute*  d'Arcis" 
(which,  after  all,  is  not  in  this  part  probably  Balzac's 
work),  we  should  not  in  that  case  have  been  so  little  sur- 
prised as  we  are  to  find  the  staid  matron  very  nearly  fling- 
ing herself  at  the  head  of  a  young  sculptor,  and  "making 
it  up"  to  him  (one  of  the  nastiest  situations  in  fiction)  with 
her  own  daughter.  So,  too,  if  the  addition  of  a  little  more 
romance  to  Bende  had  resulted  in  the  subtraction  of  a  cor- 
responding quantity  from  Louise,  there  might  not  have  been 
much  harm  done.  This  very  inflammable  lady  of  high  de- 
gree irresistibly  reminds  one  (except  in  beauty)  of  the  ter- 
rible spinster  in  Mr.  Punch's  gallery  who  "had  never  seen 
the  man  whom  she  could  not  love,  and  hoped  to  Heaven 
she  never  might."  It  was  not  for  nothing  that  Mile,  de 
Chaulieu  requested  (in  defiance  of  possibility)  to  be  intro- 
duced to  Madame  de  Stael.  She  is  herself  a  later  and 
slightly  modernized  variety  of  the  Corinne  ideal — a  sort  of 
French  equivalent  in  fiction  of  the  actual  English  Lady 
Caroline  Lamb,  a  person  with  no  repose  in  her  affections, 
and  conceiving  herself  in  conscience  bound  to  make  both 
herself  and  her  lovers  or  husbands  miserable.  It  is  true 
that  in  order  to  the  successful  accomplishment  of  this 
cheerful  life-programme,  Balzac  has  provided  her  with  two 
singularly  complaisant  and  adequate  helpmates  in  the  shape 
of  the  Spaniard-Sardinian  Felipe  de  Macumer  and  the 
French-Englishman  and  lunatic  Marie  Graston.  Nor  do  I 
know  that  she  is  more  than  they  themselves  desire,  being, 
as  they  are,  walking  gentlemen  of  a  most  triste  description, 
deplorable  to  consider  as  coming  from  the  hand  that  created 
not  merely  Groriot  and  Grandet,  but  even  Kastignac,  Flore 
Brazier,  and  Lucien  de  Rubempre.  If  this  censure  seems 
too  hard,  I  can  only  say  that  of  all  things  that  deserve  the 
name  of  failure,  "sensibility"  that  does  not  reach  the  ac- 


PREFACE  283 

tual  boiling-point  of  passion  seems  to  me  to  fail  most  dis- 
agreeably. 

There  are,  however,  even  for  those  who  are  thus  minded, 
considerable  condolences  and  consolations  in  "Une  Fille 
d'Eve."  It  is  perhaps  unfortunate — and  may  not  improb- 
ably be  the  cause  of  that  abiding  notion  of  Balzac  as  pre- 
ferring moral  ugliness  to  moral  beauty,  which  has  been  so 
often  referred  to — that  he  has  rather  a  habit  of  setting  his 
studies  in  rose-pink  side  by  side  with  his  far  more  vigor- 
ous exercitations  in  black  and  crimson.  "Une  Fille  d'Eve" 
is  one  of  the  best  of  these  latter  in  its  own  way.  It  is  no 
doubt  conditioned  by  Balzac's  quaint  hatred  of  that  news- 
paper press  from  which  he  never  could  quite  succeed  in 
disengaging  himself;  and  we  should  have  been  more  en- 
tirely rejoiced  at  the  escape  of  Count  Fe*lix  de  Vandenesse 
from  the  decoration  so  often  alluded  to  by  our  Elizabethan 
poets  and  dramatists  if  he  had  not  been  the  very  question- 
able hero  of  "Le  Lys  dans  laValle"e."  But  the  whole  in- 
trigue is  managed  with  remarkable  ease  and  skill;  the 
"double  arrangement,"  so  to  speak,  by  which  Eaoul  Na- 
than proves  for  a  time  at  least  equally  attractive  to  such 
very  different  persons  as  Florine  and  Madame  de  Vande- 
nesse, the  perfidious  manoeuvres  of  the  respectable  ladies 
who  have  formerly  enjoyed  the  doubtful  honor  of  Count 
Felix's  attentions — all  are  good.  It  can  hardly  be  said, 
considering  the  nature  of  the  case,  that  the  Count's  method 
of  saving  his  honor,  though  not  quite  the  most  scrupulous 
in  the  world,  is  contrary  to  "the  game,"  and  the  whole 
moves  well. 

Perhaps  the  character  of  Nathan  himself  cannot  be  said 
to  be  quite  fully  worked  out.  Balzac  seems  to  have  pos- 
tulated, as  almost  necessary  to  the  journalist  nature,  a  sort 
of  levity  half  artistic,  half  immoral,  which  is  incapable  of 
constancy  or  uprightness.  Blondet,  and  perhaps  Claude 
Vignon,  are  about  the  only  members  of  the  accursed  voca- 
tion whom  he  allows  in  some  measure  to  escape  the  curse. 
But  he  has  not  elaborated  and  instanced  its  working  quite 


284  PREFACE 

so  fully  in  the  case  of  Nathan  as  in  the  cases  of  Lousteau 
and  Lucien  de  B.ubempre'.  I  do  not  know  whether  any 
special  original  has  been  assigned  to  Nathan,  who,  it  will 
be  observed,  is  something  more  than  a  mere  journalist, 
being  a  successful  dramatist  and  romancer. 

"Me'moires  de  Deux  Jeunes  Mariees"  first  appeared  in 
the  "Presse"  during  the  winter  of  1841-42,  and  was  pub- 
lished as  a  book  by  Souverain  in  the  latter  year.  The 
"Come'die"  in  its  complete  form  was  already  under  way; 
and  the  "Me'moires"  being  suitable  for  its  earliest  division, 
the  "Scenes  de  la  Vie  PriveV'  were  entered  at  once  on  the 
books,  the  same  year,  1842,  seeing  the  entrance. 

"Une  Fille  d'Eve"  was  a  little  earlier.  After  appear- 
ing (with  nine  chapter  divisions)  in  the  "Siecle"  on  the 
last  day  of  December,  1838,  and  during  the  first  fortnight 
of  January,  1839,  it  was  in  the  latter  year  published  as  a 
book  by  Souverain  with  "Massimilla  Doni, "  and  three  years 
later  was  comprised  in  the  first  volume  of  the  ' '  Come'die. ' ' 


A   DAUGHTER    OF    EVE 


CHAPTER  I 

THE     TWO     MARIES 

/T  WAS  half -past  eleven  in  the  evening,  and  two  "women 
were  seated  by  the  fire  of  a  boudoir  in  one  of  the  finest 
houses  of  the  Rue  Neuve-des-Mathurins.  The  room 
was  hung  in  blue  velvet,  of  the  kind  with  tender  melting 
lights,  which  French  industry  has  only  lately  learned  to 
manufacture.  The  doors  and  windows  had  been  draped  by 
a  really  artistic  decorator  with  rich  cashmere  curtains,  match- 
ing the  walls  in  color.  From  a  prettily  molded  rose  in  the 
centre  of  the  ceiling,  hung,  by  three  finely  wrought  chains, 
a  silver  lamp,  studded  with  turquoises.  The  plan  of  decora- 
tion had  been  carried  out  to  the  very  minutest  detail;  even 
the  ceiling  was  covered  with  blue  silk,  while  long  bands  of 
cashmere,  folded  across  the  silk  at  equal  distances,  made 
stars  of  white,  looped  up  with  pearl  beading.  The  feet 
sank  in  the  warm  pile  of  a  Belgian  carpet,  close  as  a  lawn, 
where  blue  nosegays  were  sprinkled  over  a  ground  the  color 
of  unbleached  linen.  The  warm  tone  of  the  furniture,  which 
was  of  solid  rosewood  and  carved  after  the  best  antique  mod- 
els, saved  from  insipidity  the  general  effect  which  a  painter 
might  have  called  a  little  "muzzy."  On  the  backs  of  the 
chairs  small  panels  of  splendid  broche"  silk — white  with  blue 
flowers — were  set  in  broad  leafy  frames,  finely  cut  on  the 
wood.  On  either  side  of  the  window  stood  a  set  of  shelves, 
loaded  with  valuable  knick-knacks,  the  flower  of  mechanical 
art,  sprung  into  being  at  the  touch  of  creative  fancy.  The 
mantel-piece  of  African  marble  bore  a  platinum  timepiece 

(286) 


286  BALZACTS  WORKS 

with  arabesques  in  black  enamel,  flanked  by  extravagant 
specimens  of  old  Saxe — the  inevitable  shepherd  with  dainty 
bouquet  forever  tripping  to  meet  his  bride — embodying  the 
Teutonic  conception  of  ceramic  art.  Above  sparkled  the  bev- 
elled facets  of  a  Venetian  mirror  in  an  ebony  frame,  crowded 
with  figures  in  relief,  relic  of  some  royal  residence.  Two 
flower-stands  displayed  at  this  season  the  sickly  triumphs  of 
the  hothouse,  pale,  spirit-like  blossoms,  the  pearls  of  the 
world  of  flowers.  The  room  might  have  been  for  sale,  it 
was  so  desperately  tidy  and  prim.  It  bore  no  impress  of 
will  and  character  such  as  marks  a  happy  home,  and  even 
the  women  did  not  break  the  general  chilly  impression,  for 
they  were  weeping. 

The  proprietor  of  the  house,  Ferdinand  du  Tillet,  was  one 
of  the  richest  bankers  in  Paris,  and  the  very  mention  of  his 
name  will  account  for  the  lavish  style  of  the  house  decora- 
tion, of  which  the  boudoir  may  be  taken  as  a  sample.  Du 
Tillet,  though  a  man  of  no  family  and  sprung  from  Heaven 
knows  where,  had  taken  for  wife,  in  1831,  the  only  unmar- 
ried daughter  of  the  Comte  de  Granville,  whose  name  was 
one  of  the  most  illustrious  on  the  French  bench,  and  who 
had  been  made  a  peer  of  the  realm  after  the  Revolution  of 
July.  This  ambitious  alliance  was  not  got  for  nothing;  in 
the  settlement,  du  Tillet  had  to  sign  a  receipt  for  a  dowry 
of  which  he  never  touched  a  penny.  This  nominal  dowry 
was  the  same  in  amount  as  the  huge  sum  given  to  the  elder 
sister  on  her  marriage  with  Comte  Felix  de  Vandenesse,  and 
which,  in  fact,  was  the  price  paid  by  the  Gran vi lies  in  their 
turn  for  a  matrimonial  prize.  Thus,  in  the  long  run,  the 
bank  repaired  the  breach  which  aristocracy  had  made  in 
the  finances  of  the  bench.  Could  the  Comte  de  Vandenesse 
have  seen  himself,  three  years  in  advance,  brother-in-law  of 
a  Master  Ferdinand,  self-styled  du  Tillet,  it  is  possible  he 
might  have  declined  the  match;  but  who  could  have  fore- 
seen at  the  close  of  1828  the  strange  upheavals  which  1830 
was  to  produce  in  the  political,  financial,  and  moral  condi- 
tion of  France?  Had  Count  Felix  been  told  that  in  the 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  287 

general  shuffle  he  would  lose  his  peer's  coronet,  to  find  it 
again  on  his  father-in-law's  brow,  he  would  have  treated  his 
informant  as  a  lunatic. 

Crouching  in  a  listening  attitude  in  one  of  those  low 
chairs  called  a  chauffeuse,  Mme.  du  Tillet  pressed  her  sister's 
hand  to  her  breast  with  motherly  tenderness,  and  from  time 
to  time  kissed  it.  This  sister  was  known  in  society  as  Mme. 
Felix  de  Vandenesse,  the  Christian  name  being  joined  to  that 
of  the  family,  in  order  to  distinguish  the  Countess  from  her 
sister-in-law,  wife  of  the  former  ambassador,  Charles  de 
Vandenesse,  widow  of  the  late  Comte  de  Kergarouet,  whose 
wealth  she  had  inherited,  and  by  birth  a  de  Fontaine.  The 
Countess  had  thrown  herself  back  upon  a  lounge,  a  hand- 
kerchief in  her  other  hand,  her  eyes  swimming,  her  breath 
choked  with  half-stifled  sobs.  She  had  just  poured  out  her 
confidences  to  Mme.  du  Tillet  in  a  way  which  proved  the 
tenderness  of  their  sisterly  love.  In  an  age  like  ours  it 
would  have  seemed  so  natural  for  sisters,  who  had  married 
into  such  very  different  spheres,  not  to  be  on  intimate  terms, 
that  a  rapid  glance  at  the  story  of  their  childhood  will  be 
necessary  in  order  to  explain  the  origin  of  this  affection 
which  had  survived,  without  jar  or  flaw,  the  alienating 
forces  of  society  and  the  mutual  scorn  of  their  husbands. 

The  early  home  of  Marie-Angelique  and  Marie-Eugenie 
was  a  dismal  house  in  the  Marais.  Here  they  were  brought 
up  by  a  pious  but  narrow-minded  woman,  "imbued  with 
high  principle,"  as  the  classic  phrase  has  it,  who  conceived 
herself  to  have  performed  the  whole  duty  of  a  mother  when 
her  girls  arrived  at  the  door  of  matrimony  without  ever  hav- 
ing travelled  beyond  the  domestic  circle  embraced  by  the 
maternal  eye.  Up  to  that  time  they  had  never  even  been 
to  a  play.  A  Paris  church  was  their  nearest  approach  to  a 
theatre.  In  short,  their  upbringing  in  their  mother's  house 
was  as  strict  as  it  could  have  been  in  a  convent.  From  the 
time  that  they  had  ceased  to  be  mere  infants  they  always 
slept  in  a  room  adjoining  that  of  the  Countess,  the  door  of 
which  was  kept  open  at  night.  The  time  not  occupied  by 


288  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

dressing,  religious  observances,  and  the  minimum  of  study 
requisite  for  the  children  of  gentlefolk,  was  spent  in  making 
poor-clothes  and  in  taking  exercise,  modelled  on  the  English 
Sunday  walk,  where  any  quickening  of  the  solemn  pace  is 
checked  as  being  suggestive  of  cheerfulness.  Their  lessons 
were  kept  within  the  limits  imposed  by  confessors,  chosen 
from  among  the  least  liberal  and  most  Jansenist  of  ecclesias- 
tics. Never  were  girls  handed  over  to  their  husbands  more 
pure  and  virgin :  in  this  point,  doubtless  one  of  great  impor- 
tance, their  mother  seemed  to  have  seen  the  fulfilment  of  her 
whole  duty  to  God  and  man.  Not  a  novel  did  the  poor  things 
read  till  they  were  married.  In  drawing  an  old  maid  was 
their  instructor,  and  their  only  copies  were  figures  whose 
anatomy  would  have  confounded  Cuvier,  and  so  drawn  as 
to  have  made  a  woman  of  the  Farnese  Hercules.  A  worthy 
priest  taught  them  grammar,  French,  history,  geography, 
and  the  little  arithmetic  a  woman  needs  to  know.  As  for 
literature,  they  read  aloud  in  the  evening  from  certain  au- 
thorized books,  such  as  the  "Lettres  eMinantes"  and  Noel's 
"Le9ons  de  literature,"  but  only  in  the  presence  of  their 
mother's  confessor,  since  even  here  passages  might  occur, 
which,  apart  from  heedful  commentary,  would  be  liable  to 
stir  the  imagination.  Fenelon's  "Telemachus"  was  held 
dangerous.  The  Comtesse  de  Grranville  was  not  without 
affection  for  her  daughters,  and  it  showed  itself  in  wishing 
to  make  angels  of  them  in  the  fashion  of  Marie  Alacoque, 
but  the  daughters  would  have  preferred  a  mother  less  saintly 
and  more  human. 

This  education  bore  its  inevitable  fruit.  Religion,  im- 
posed as  a  yoke  and  presented  under  its  harshest  aspect, 
wearied  these  innocent  young  hearts  with  a  discipline 
adapted  for  hardened  sinners.  It  repressed  their  feelings, 
and,  though  striking  deep  root,  could  create  no  affection. 
The  two  Maries  had  no  alternative  but  to  sink  into  imbecil- 
ity or  to  long  for  independence.  Independence  meant  mar- 
riage, and  to  this  they  looked  as  soon  as  they  began  to  see 
something  of  the  world  and  could  exchange  a  few  ideas, 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  289 

while  yet  remaining  utterly  unconscious  of  their  own  touch- 
ing grace  and  rare  qualities.  Ignorant  of  what  innocence 
meant,  without  arms  against  misfortune,  without  experi- 
ence of  happiness,  how  should  they  be  able  to  judge  of 
life  ?  Their  only  comfort  in  the  depths  of  this  maternal  jail 
was  drawn  from  each  other.  Their  sweet  whispered  talks 
at  night,  the  few  sentences  they  could  exchange  when  their 
mother  left  them  for  a  moment,  contained  sometimes  more 
thoughts  than  could  be  put  in  words.  Often  would  a  stolen 
glance,  charged  with  sympathetic  message  and  response,  con- 
vey a  whole  poem  of  bitter  melancholy.  They  found  a  mar- 
vellous joy  in  simple  things — the  sight  of  a  cloudless  sky, 
the  scent  of  flowers,  a  turn  in  the  garden  with  interlacing 
arms — and  would  exult  with  innocent  glee  over  the  comple- 
tion of  a  piece  of  embroidery. 

Their  mother's  friends,  far  from  providing  intellectual 
stimulus  or  calling  forth  their  sympathies,  only  deepened 
the  surrounding  gloom.  They  were  stiff  -backed  old  ladies, 
dry  and  rigid,  whose  conversation  turned  on  their  ailments, 
on  the  shades  of  difference  between  preachers  or  confessors, 
or  on  the  most  trifling  events  in  the  religious  world,  which 
might  be  found  in  the  pages  of  "La  Quotidienne1'  or  "L'Ami 
de  la  Religion."  The  men  again  might  have  served  as  ex- 
tinguishers to  the  torch  of  love,  so  cold  and  mournfully  im- 
passive were  their  faces.  They  had  all  reached  the  age  when 
a  man  becomes  churlish  and  irritable,  when  his  tastes  are 
blunted  except  at  table,  and  are  directed  only  to  procuring 
the  comforts  of  life.  Religious  egotism  had  dried  up  hearta 
devoted  to  task  work  and  intrenched  behind  routine.  They 
spent  the  greater  part  of  the  evening  over  silent  card -parties. 
At  times  the  two  poor  little  girls,  placed  under  the  ban  of 
this  sanhedrim,  who  abetted  the  maternal  severity,  would 
suddenly  feel  that  they  could  bear  no  longer  the  sight  of 
these  wearisome  persons  with  their  sunken  eyes  and  frown- 
ing faces. 

Against  the  dull  background  of  this  life  stood  out  in  bold 
relief  the  single  figure  of  a  man,  that  of  their  music-master. 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC — 13 


290  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

The  confessors  had  ruled  that  music  was  a  Christian  art, 
having  its  source  in  the  Catholic  Church  and  developed  by 
it,  and  therefore  the  two  little  girls  were  allowed  to  learn 
music.  A  spectacled  lady,  who  professed  sol-fa  and  the 
piano  at  a  neighboring  convent,  bored  them  for  a  time  with 
exercises.  But,  when  the  elder  of  his  girls  was  ten  years 
old,  the  Comte  de  Granville  pointed  out  the  necessity  of 
finding  a  master.  Mme.  de  Granville,  who  could  not  deny 
it,  gave  to  her  concession  all  the  merit  of  wifely  submissive- 
ness.  A  pious  woman  never  loses  an  opportunity  of  taking 
credit  for  doing  her  duty. 

The  master  was  a  Catholic  German,  one  of  those  men  who 
are  born  old  and  will  always  remain  fifty,  even  if  they  live 
to  be  eighty.  His  hollowed,  wrinkled,  swarthy  face  had 
kept  something  childlike  and  simple  in  its  darkest  folds. 
The  blue  of  innocence  sparkled  in  his  eyes,  and  the  gay 
smile  of  spring  dwelt  on  his  lips.  His  old  gray  hair,  which 
fell  in  natural  curls,  like  those  of  Jesus  Christ,  added  to  his 
ecstatic  air  a  vague  solemnity  which  was  highly  misleading, 
for  he  was  a  man  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  with  the  most  ex- 
emplary gravity.  His  clothes  were  a  necessary  envelope  to 
which  he  paid  no  attention,  for  his  gaze  soared  too  high  in 
the  clouds  to  come  in  contact  with  material  things.  And 
so  this  great  unrecognized  artist  belonged  to  that  generous 
race  of  the  absent-minded,  who  give  their  time  and  their 
hearts  to  others,  just  as  they  drop  their  gloves  on  every  table, 
their  umbrellas  at  every  door.  His  hands  were  of  the  kind 
which  look  dirty  after  washing.  Finally,  his  aged  frame, 
badly  set  up  on  tottering,  knotty  limbs,  gave  ocular  proof 
how  far  a  man's  body  can  become  a  mere  accessory  to  his 
mind.  It  was  one  of  those  strange  freaks  of  nature  which 
no  one  has  ever  properly  described  except  Hoffmann,  a  Ger- 
man, who  has  made  himself  the  poet  of  all  which  appears 
lifeless  and  yet  lives.  Such  was  Schmucke,  formerly  choir- 
master to  the  Margrave  of  Anspuch,  a  learned  man  who  un- 
derwent inspection  from  a  council  of  piety.  They  asked  him 
whether  he  fasted.  The  master  was  tempted  to  reply,  "Look 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  291 

at  me!"  but  it  is  ill  work  jesting  with  saints  and  Jansenist 
confessors. 

This  apocryphal  old  man  held  so  large  a  place  in  the  life 
of  the  two  Maries — they  became  so  much  attached  to  the 
great  simple-minded  artist  whose  sole  interest  was  in  his  art 
— that,  after  they  were  married,  each  bestowed  on  him  an 
annuity  of  three  hundred  francs,  a  sum  which  sufficed  for 
his  lodging,  his  beer,  his  pipe,  and  his  clothes.  Six  hun- 
dred francs  a  year  and  his  lessons  were  a  Paradise  for 
Schmucke.  He  had  not  ventured  to  confide  his  poverty 
and  his  hopes  to  any  one  except  these  two  charming  chil- 
dren, whose  hearts  had  blossomed  under  the  snow  of  ma- 
ternal rigor  and  the  frost  of  devotion,  and  this  fact  by  itself 
sums  up  the  character  of  Schmucke  and  the  childhood  of  the 
two  Maries. 

No  one  could  tell  afterward  what  abbe,  what  devout  old 
lady,  had  unearthed  this  German,  lost  in  Paris.  No  sooner 
did  mothers  of  a  family  learn  that  the  Comtesse  de  Gran- 
ville  had  found  a  music -master  for  her  daughters  than  they 
all  asked  for  his  name  and  address.  Schmucke  had  thirty 
houses  in  the  Marais.  This  tardy  success  displayed  itself 
in  slippers  with  bronzed  steel  buckles  and  lined  with  horse- 
hair soles,  and  in  a  more  frequent  change  of  shirt.  His 
childlike  gayety,  long  repressed  by  an  honorable  and 
seemly  poverty,  bubbled  forth  afresh.  He  let  fall  little 
jokes  such  as — "Young  ladies,  the  cats  supped  off  the 
dirt  of  Paris  last  night,"  when  a  frost  had  dried  the  muddy 
streets  overnight,  only  they  were  spoken  in  a  Germano- 
Gallic  lingo — "  Younc  ladies,  de  gads  subbed  off  de  dirt  off 
Barees."  Gratified  at  having  brought  his  adorable  ladies 
this  species  of  Vergiss  mein  nicht,  culled  from  the  flowers 
of  his  fancy,  he  put  on  an  air  of  such  ineffable  roguishness 
in  presenting  it  that  mockery  was  disarmed.  It  made  him 
so  happy  to  call  a  smile  to  the  lips  of  his  pupils,  the  sad- 
ness of  whose  life  was  no  mystery  to  him,  that  he  would 
have  made  himself  ridiculous  on  purpose  if  nature  had  not 
saved  him  the  trouble.  And  yet  there  was  no  common- 


292  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

place  so  vulgar  that  the  warmth  of  his  heart  could  not  in- 
fuse it  with  fresh  meaning.  In  the  fine  words  of  the  late 
Saint-Martin,  the  radiance  of  his  smile  might  have  turned 
the  mire  of  the  highway  to  gold.  The  two  Maries,  fol- 
lowing one  of  the  best  traditions  of  religious  education, 
used  to  escort  their  master  respectfully  to  the  door  of  the 
suite  when  he  left.  There  the  poor  girls  would  say  a 
few  kind  words  to  him,  happy  in  making  him  happy.  It 
was  the  one  chance  they  had  of  exercising  their  woman's 
nature. 

Thus,  up  to  the  time  of  their  marriage,  music  became 
for  the  girls  a  life  within  life,  just  as,  we  are  told,  the 
Russian  peasant  takes  his  dreams  for  realities,  his  waking 
life  for  a  restless  sleep.  In  their  eagerness  to  find  some 
bulwark  against  the  rising  tide  of  pettiness  and  consuming 
ascetic  ideas,  they  threw  themselves  desperately  into  the 
difficulties  of  the  musical  art.  Melody,  harmony,  and  com- 
position, those  three  daughters  of  the  skies,  rewarded  their 
labors,  making  a  rampart  for  them  with  their  aerial  dances, 
while  the  old  Catholic  faun,  intoxicated  by  music,  led  the 
chorus.  Mozart,  Beethoven,  Haydn,  Paesiello,  Cimarosa, 
Hummel,  along  with  musicians  of  lesser  rank,  developed 
in  them  sensations  which  never  passed  beyond  the  modest 
limit  of  their  veiled  bosoms,  but  which  went  to  the  heart 
of  that  new  world  of  fancy  whither  they  eagerly  betook 
themselves.  When  the  execution  of  some  piece  had  been 
brought  to  perfection,  they  would  clasp  hands  and  embrace 
in  the  wildest  ecstasy.  The  old  master  called  them  his 
Saint  Cecilias. 

The  two  Maries  did  not  go  to  balls  till  they  were  six- 
teen, and  then  only  four  times  a  year,  to  a  few  selected 
houses.  They  only  left  their  mother's  side  when  well  for- 
tified with  rules  of  conduct,  so  strict  that  they  could  reply 
nothing  but  yes  and  no  to  their  partners.  The  eye  of  the 
Countess  never  quitted  her  daughters  and  seemed  to  read 
the  words  upon  their  lips.  The  ball-dresses  of  the  poor 
little  things  were  models  of  decorum — high-necked  muslin 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  293 

frocks,  with  an  extraordinary  number  of  fluffy  frills  and 
long  sleeves.  This  ungraceful  costume,  which  concealed 
instead  of  setting  off  their  beauty,  reminded  one  of  an 
Egyptian  mummy,  in  spite  of  two  sweetly  pathetic  faces 
which  peeped  out  from  the  mass  of  cotton.  With  all 
their  innocence,  they  were  furious  to  find  themselves  the 
objects  of  a  kindly  pity.  Where  is  the  woman,  however 
artless,  who  would  not  inspire  envy  rather  than  compas- 
sion? The  white  matter  of  their  brains  was  imsoiled  by  a 
single  perilous,  morbid,  or  ever,  equivocal  thought;  their 
hearts  were  pure,  their  hands  were  frightfully  red;  they 
were  bursting  with  health.  Eve  did  not  leave  the  hands 
of  her  Creator  more  guileless  than  were  these  two  girls 
when  they  left  their  mother's  home  to  go  to  the  mairie 
and  to  the  church,  with  one  simple  but  awful  command 
in  their  ears — to  obey  in  all  things  the  man  by  whose  side 
they  were  to  spend  the  night,  awake  or  sleeping.  To  them 
it  seemed  impossible  that  they  should  suffer  more  in  the 
strange  house  whither  they  were  to  be  banished  than  in 
the  maternal  convent. 

How  came  it  that  the  father  of  these  girls  did  nothing  to 
protect  them  from  so  crushing  a  despotism?  The  Comte  de 
Granville  had  a  great  reputation  as  a  judge,  able  and  incor- 
ruptible, if  sometimes  a  little  carried  away  by  party  feeling. 
Unhappily,  by  the  terms  of  a  remarkable  compromise,  agreed 
upon  after  ten  years  of  married  life,  husband  and  wife  lived 
apart,  each  in  their  own  suite  of  apartments.  The  father, 
who  judged  the  repressive  system  less  dangerous  for  women 
than  for  men,  kept  the  education  of  his  boys  in  his  own 
hands,  while  leaving  that  of  the  girls  to  their  mother.  The 
two  Maries,  who  could  hardly  escape  the  imposition  of  some 
tyranny,  whether  in  love  or  marriage,  would  suffer  less  than 
boys,  whose  intelligence  ought  to  be  unfettered  and  whose 
natural  spirit  would  be  broken  by  the  harsh  constraint  of 
religious  dogma  pushed  to  an  extreme.  Of  four  victims 
the  Count  saved  two.  The  Countess  looked  on  her  sons, 
both  destined  for  the  law — the  one  for  the  magistrature 


294  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

assize,  the  other  for  the  magistrature  amovible1 — as  far  too 
badly  brought  up  to  be  allowed  any  intimacy  with  their  sis- 
ters. All  intercourse  between  the  poor  children  was  strictly 
guarded.  When  the  Count  took  his  boys  from  school  for  a 
day  he  was  careful  that  it  should  not  be  spent  in  the  house. 
After  luncheon  with  their  mother  and  sisters  he  would  find 
something  to  amuse  them  outside.  Eestaurants,  theatres, 
museums,  an  expedition  to  the  country  in  summer-time, 
were  their  treats.  Only  on  important  family  occasions, 
such  as  the  birthday  of  the  Countess  or  of  their  father, 
New  Year's  Day,  and  prize-giving  days,  did  the  boys 
spend  day  and  night  under  the  paternal  roof,  in  extreme 
discomfort,  and  not  daring  to  kiss  their  sisters  under  the 
eye  of  the  Countess,  who  never  left  them  alone  together 
for  an  instant.  Seeing  so  little  of  their  brothers,  how  was 
it  possible  the  poor  girls  should  feel  any  bond  with  them  ? 
On  these  days  it  was  a  perpetual,  "Where  is  Ang^lique?" 
"What  is  Eugenie  about?"  "Where  can  my  children  be?" 
When  her  sons  were  mentioned,  the  Countess  would  raise 
her  cold  and  sodden  eyes  to  Heaven,  as  though  imploring 
pardon  for  having  failed  to  snatch  them  from  ungodliness. 
Her  exclamations  and  her  silence  in  regard  to  them  were 
alike  eloquent  as  the  most  lamentable  verses  of  Jeremiah, 
and  the  girls  not  unnaturally  came  to  look  on  their  brothers 
as  hopeless  reprobates. 

The  Count  gave  to  each  of  his  sons,  at  the  age  of  eigh- 
teen, a  couple  of  rooms  in  his  own  suite,  and  they  then 
began  to  study  law  under  the  direction  of  his  secretary,  a 
barrister,  to  whom  he  intrusted  the  task  of  initiating  them 
into  the.  mysteries  of  their  profession. 

The  two  Maries,  therefore,  had  no  practical  knowledge 
of  what  it  is  to  have  a  brother.  On  the  occasion  of  their 
sisters'  weddings  it  happened  that  both  brothers  were  de- 

1  The  magistrature  assize  consists  of  the  judges  who  sit  in  Court,  and  are 
appointed  for  life.  The  members  of  the  magistrature  amovible  conduct  the  ex- 
amination and  prosecution  of  accused  persona.  They  address  the  Court  standing, 
and  are  not  appointed  for  life. 


295 

tained  at  a  distance  by  important  cases:  the  one  having 
then  a  post  as  avocat  general1  at  a  distant  Court,  while  the 
other  was  making  his  first  appearance  in  the  provinces.  In 
many  families  the  reality  of  that  home-life,  which  we  are  apt 
to  picture  as  linked  together  by  the  closest  and  most  vital 
ties,  is  something  very  different.  The  brothers  are  far 
away,  engrossed  in  money-making,  in  pushing  their  way 
in  the  world,  or  they  are  chained  to  the  public  service; 
the  sisters  are  absorbed  in  a  vortex  of  family  interests, 
outside  their  own  circle.  Thus  the  different  members 
spend  their  lives  apart  and  indifferent  to  each  other,  held 
together  only  by  the  feeble  bond  of  memory.  If  on  occa- 
sion pride  or  self-interest  reunites  them,  just  as  often  these 
motives  act  in  the  opposite  sense  and  divide  them  in  heart, 
as  they  have  already  been  divided  in  life,  so  that  it  becomes 
a  rare  exception  to  find  a  family  living  in  one  home  and  ani- 
mated by  one  spirit.  Modern  legislation,  by  splitting  up  the 
family  into  units,  has  created  that  most  hideous  evil — the  iso- 
lation of  the  individual. 

Ange"lic[ue  and  Eugenie,  amid  the  profound  solitude  in 
which  their  youth  glided  by,  saw  their  father  but  rarely, 
and  it  was  a  melancholy  face  which  he  showed  in  his  wife's 
handsome  rooms  on  the  ground  floor.  At  home,  as  on  the 
•bench,  he  maintained  the  grave  and  dignified  bearing  of 
the  judge.  When  the  girls  had  passed  the  period  of  toys 
and  dolls,  when  they  were  beginning,  at  twelve  years  of 
age,  to  think  for  themselves,  and  had  given  up  making 
fun  of  Schmucke,  they  found  out  the  secret  of  the  cares 
which  lined  the  Count's  forehead.  Under  the  mask  of 
severity  they  could  read  traces  of  a  kindly,  lovable  na- 
ture. He  had  yielded  to  the  Church  his  place  as  head  of 
the  household,  his  hopes  of  wedded  happiness  had  been 
blighted,  and  his  father's  heart  was  wounded  in  its  tender- 
est  spot — the  love  he  bore  his  daughters.  Sorrows  such 
as  these  rouse  strange  pity  in  the  breasts  of  girls  who 

1  The  term  is  applied  to  all  the  substitutes  of  the  procureur- general  or  At- 
torney -General. 


296  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

have  never  known  tenderness.  Sometimes  he  would  stroll 
in  the  garden  between  his  daughters,  an  arm  round  each 
little  figure,  fitting  his  pace  to  their  childish  steps;  then, 
stopping  in  the  shrubbery,  he  would  kiss  them,  one  after 
the  other,  on  the  forehead,  while  his  eyes,  his  mouth,  and 
his  whole  expression  breathed  the  deepest  pity. 

"You  are  not  very  happy,  my  darlings,"  he  said  on  one 
such  occasion;  "but  I  shall  marry  you  early,  and  it  will  be 
a  good  day  for  me  when  I  see  you  take  wing." 

"Papa,"  said  Euge'nie,  "we  have  made  up  our  minds  to 
marry  the  first  man  who  offers. ' ' 

"And  this,"  he  exclaimed,  "is  the  bitter  fruit  of  such  a 
system.  In  trying  to  make  saints  of  them,  they  ..." 

He  stopped.  Often  the  girls  were  conscious  of  a  pas- 
sionate tenderness  in  their  father's  farewell,  or  in  the  way 
he  looked  at  them  when  by  chance  he  dined  with  their 
mother.  This  father,  whom  they  so  rarely  saw,  became 
the  object  of  their  pity,  and  whom  we  pity  we  love. 

The  marriage  of  both  sisters — welded  together  by  mis- 
fortune, as  Rita-Christina  was  by  nature — was  the  direct 
result  of  this  strict  conventual  training.  Many  men,  when 
thinking  of  marriage,  prefer  a  girl  taken  straight  from  the 
convent  and  impregnated  with  an  atmosphere  of  devotion 
to  one  who  has  been  trained  in  the  school  of  society; 
There  is  no  medium.  On  the  one  hand  is  the  girl  with 
nothing  left  to  learn,  who  reads  and  discusses  the  papers, 
who  has  spun  round  ball-rooms  in  the  arms  of  countless 
young  men,  who  has  seen  every  play  and  devoured  every 
novel,  whose  knees  have  been  made  supple  by  a  dancing- 
master,  pressing  them  against  his  own,  who  does  not 
trouble  her  head  about  religion  and  has  evolved  her  own 
morality;  on  the  other  is  the  guileless,  simple  girl  of  the 
type  of  Marie-Auge'lique  and  Marie-Eugdnie.  Possibly  the 
husband's  risk  is  no  greater  in  the  one  case  than  in  the  other, 
but  the  immense  majority  of  men,  who  have  not  yet  reached 
the  age  of  Arnolphe,  would  choose  a  saintly  Agnes  rather 
than  a  budding  Celimene. 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  297 

The  two  Maries  were  identical  in  figure,  feet,  and 
hands.  Both  were  small  and  slight.  Eugenie,  the 
younger,  was  fair  like  her  mother;  Angelique,  dark  like 
her  father.  But  they  had  the  same  complexion — a  skin  of 
that  mother-of-pearl  white  which  tells  of  a  rich  and  healthy 
blood  and  against  which  the  carnation  stands  out  in  vivid 
patches,  firm  in  texture  like  the  jasmine,  and  like  it  also, 
delicate,  smooth,  and  soft  to  the  touch.  The  blue  eyes  of 
Eugdnie,  the  brown  eyes  of  Angelique,  had  the  same  nai've 
expression  of  indifference  and  unaffected  astonishment,  be- 
trayed by  the  indecisive  wavering  of  the  iris  in  the  liquid 
white.  Their  figures  were  good;  the  shoulders,  a  little 
angular  now,  would  be  rounded  by  time.  The  neck  and 
bosom,  which  had  been  so  long  veiled,  appeared  quite 
startlingly  perfect  in  form,  when,  at  the  request  of  her 
husband,  each  sister  for  the  first  time  attired  herself  for  a 
ball  in  a  low-necked  dress.  What  blushes  covered  the 
poor  innocent  things,  so  charming  in  their  shamefaced- 
ness,  as  they  first  saw  themselves  in  the  privacy  of  their 
own  rooms;  nor  did  the  color  fade  all  evening! 

At  the  moment  when  this  story  opens,  with  the  younger 
Marie  consoling  her  weeping  sister,  they  are  no  longer  raw 
girls.  Each  had  nursed  an  infant — one  a  boy,  the  other  a 
girl — and  the  hands  and  arms  of  both  were  white  as  milk. 
Eugenie  had  always  seemed  something  of  a  madcap  to  her 
terrible  mother,  who  redoubled  her  watchful  care  and 
severity  on  her  behalf.  Angelique,  stately  and  proud, 
had,  she  thought,  a  soul  of  high  temper  fitted  to  guard  it- 
self, while  the  skittish  Eugenie  seemed  to  demand  a  firmer 
hand.  There  are  charming  natures  of  this  kind,  misread 
by  destiny,  whose  life  ought  to  be  unbroken  sunshine,  but 
who  live  and  die  in  misery,  plagued  by  some  evil  genius, 
the  victims  of  chance.  Thus  the  sprightly,  artless  Eugenie 
had  fallen  under  the  malign  despotism  of  a  parvenu  when 
released  from  the  maternal  clutches.  Angelique,  high- 
strung  and  sensitive,  had  been  sent  adrift  in  the  highest 
circles  of  Parisian  society  without  any  restraining  curb. 


296"  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

CHAPTER   H 

SISTEKLY    CONFIDENCES 

li  AT  ME.  DE  VANDENESSE,  it  was  plain,  was  crushed 
/yi  by  the  burden  of  troubles  too  heavy  for  a  mind  still 
unsophisticated  after  six  years  of  marriage.  She 
lay  at  length,  her  limbs  flaccid,  her  body  bent,  her  head 
fallen  anyhow  on  the  back  of  the  lounge.  Having  looked 
in  at  the  opera  before  hurrying  to  her  sister's,  she  had  still 
a  few  flowers  in  the  plaits  of  her  hair,  while  others  lay  scat- 
tered on  the  carpet,  together  with  her  gloves,  her  mantle  of 
fur-lined  silk,  her  muff,  and  her  hood.  Bright  tears  min- 
gled with  the  pearls  on  her  white  bosom  and  brimming  eyes 
told  a  tale  in  grewsome  contrast  with  the  luxury  around. 
The  Countess  had  no  heart  for  further  words. 

"You  poor  darling,"  said  Mnie.  du  Tillet,  "what  strange 
delusion  as  to  my  married  life  made  you  corne  to  me  for 
help?" 

It  seemed  as  though  the  torrent  of  her  sister's  grief  had 
forced  these  words  from  the  heart  of  the  banker's  wife,  as 
melting  snow  will  set  free  stones  that  are  held  the  fastest  in 
the  river's  bed.  The  Countess  gazed  stupidly  on  her  with 
fixed  eyes,  in  which  terror  had  dried  the  tears. 

"Can  it  be  that  the  waters  have  closed  over  your  head  too, 
my  sweet  one?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Nay,  dear,  my  troubles  won't  lessen  yours." 

"But  tell  me  them,  dear  child.  Do  you  think  I  am  so 
sunk  in  self  already  as  not  to  listen  ?  Then  we  are  comrades 
again  in  suffering  as  of  old!" 

"But  we  suffer  apart,"  sadly  replied  Mme.  du  Tillet. 
"We  live  in  opposing  camps.  It  is  my  turn  to  visit  the 
Tuileries  now  that  you  have  ceased  to  go.  Our  husbands 
belong  to  rival  parties.  I  am  the  wife  of  an  ambitious 


A   DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  299 

banker,  a  bad  man.  Your  husband,  sweetest,  is  kind, 
noble,  generous — " 

"Ah!  do  not  reproach  me,"  cried  the  Countess.  "No 
woman  has  the  right  to  do  so,  who  has  not  suffered  the  wea- 
riness of  a  tame,  colorless  life  and  passed  from  it  straight  to 
the  paradise  of  love.  She  must  have  known  the  bliss  of  liv- 
ing her  whole  life  in  another,  of  espousing  the  ever- varying 
emotions  of  a  poet's  soul.  In  every  flight  of  his  imagina- 
tion, in  all  the  efforts  of  his  ambition,  in  the  great  part  he 
plays  upon  the  stage  of  life,  she  must  have  borne  her  share, 
suffering  in  his  pain  and  mounting  on  the  wings  of  his  meas- 
ureless delights;  and  all  this  while  never  losing  her  cold, 
impassive  demeanor  before  a  prying  world.  Yes,  dear,  a 
tumult  of  emotion  may  rage  within,  while  one  sits  by  the 
fire  at  home,  quietly  and  comfortably  like  this.  And  yet 
what  joy  to  have  at  every  instant  one  overwhelming  interest 
which  expands  the  heart  and  makes  it  live  in  every  fibre. 
Nothing  is  indifferent  to  you;  your  very  life  seems  to  de- 
pend on  a  drive,  which  gives  you  the  chance  of  seeing  in  the 
crowd  the  one  man  before  the  flash  of  whose  eye  the  sunlight 
pales;  you  tremble  if  he  is  late,  and  could  strangle  the  bore 
who  steals  from  you  one  of  those  precious  moments  when 
happiness  throbs  in  every  vein!  To  be  alive,  only  to  be 
alive  is  rapture!  Think  of  it,  dear,  to  live  when  so  many 
women  would  give  the  world  to  feel  as  I  do — and  cannot. 
Eemember,  child,  that  for  this  poetry  of  life  there  is  but  one 
season — the  season  of  youth.  Soon,  very  soon,  will  come 
the  chills  of  winter.  Oh!  if  you  were  rich  as  I  am  in  these 
living  treasures  of  the  heart  and  were  threatened  with  losing 
them — " 

Mme.  du  Tillet,  terrified,  had  hidden  her  face  in  her 
hands  during  this  wild  rhapsody.  At  last,  seeing  the  warm 
tears  on  her  sister's  cheek,  she  began: 

"I  never  dreamed  of  reproaching  you,  my  darling.  Your 
words  have,  in  a  single  instant,  stirred  in  my  heart  more 
burning  thoughts  than  all  my  tears  have  quenched,  for  in- 
deed the  life  I  lead  might  well  plead  within  me  for  a  passion 


'600  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

such  as  you  describe.  Let  me  cling  to  the  belief  that  if  we 
had  seen  more  of  each  other  we  should  not  have  drifted  to 
this  point.  The  knowledge  of  my  sufferings  would  have  en- 
abled you  to  realize  your  own  happiness,  and  I  might  per- 
haps have  learned  from  you  courage  to  resist  the  tyranny 
which  has  crushed  the  sweetness  out  of  my  life.  Your  mis- 
ery is  an  accident  which  chance  may  remedy,  mine  is  unceas- 
ing. My  husband  neither  has  real  affection  for  me  nor  does 
he  trust  me.  1  am  a  mere  peg  for  his  magnificence,  the  hall- 
mark of  his  ambition,  a  tit-bit  for  his  vanity. 

"Ferdinand" — and  she  struck  her  hand  upon  the  mantel- 
piece—"is  hard  and  smooth  like  this  marble.  He  is  suspi- 
cious of  me.  If  I  ask  anything  for  myself  I  know  beforehand 
that  refusal  is  certain;  but  for  whatever  may  tickle  his  self- 
importance  or  advertise  his  wealth  I  have  not  even  to  express 
a  desire.  He  decorates  my  rooms,  and  spends  lavishly  on 
my  table;  my  servants,  my  boxes  at  the  theatre,  all  the  trap- 
pings of  rny  life  are  of  the  smartest.  He  grudges  nothing  to 
his  vanity.  His  children's  baby-linen  must  be  trimmed  with 
lace,  but  he  would  never  trouble  about  their  real  needs,  and 
would  shut  his  ears  to  their  cries.  Can  you  understand  such 
a  state  of  things  ?  I  go  to  court  loaded  with  diamonds,  and 
my  ornaments  are  of  the  most  costly  whenever  I  am  in  so- 
ciety; yet  I  have  not  a  sou  of  my  own.  Mme.  du  Tillet, 
whom  envious  onlookers  no  doubt  suppose  to  be  rolling  in 
wealth,  cannot  lay  her  hand  on  a  hundred  francs.  If  the 
father  cares  little  for  his  children,  he  cares  still  less  for  their 
mother.  Never  does  he  allow  me  to  forget  that  I  have  been 
paid  for  as  a  chattel,  and  that  iny  personal  fortune,  which 
has  never  been  in  rny  possession,  has  been  filched  from  him. 
If  he  stood  alone  I  might  have  a  chance  of  fascinating  him, 
but  there  is  an  alien  influence  at  work.  He  is  under  the 
thumb  of  a  woman,  a  notaiy's  widow,  over  fifty,  but  who 
still  reckons  on  her  charms,  and  I  can  see  very  well  that 
while  she  lives  I  shall  never  be  free. 

"My  whole  life  here  is  planned  out  like  a  sovereign's. 
A  bell  is  rung  for  my  lunch  and  dinner  as  at  your  castle.     I 


A    DAUGHTER    OF  EVE 

never  miss  going  to  the  Bois  at  a  certain  hour,  accompanied 
by  two  footmen  in  full  livery,  and  returning  at  a  fixed  time. 
In  place  of  giving  orders,  I  receive  them.  At  balls  and  the 
theatre,  a  lackey  comes  up  to  me  saying,  'Your  carriage 
waits,  madame,'  and  I  have  to  go,  whether  I  am  enjoying 
myself  or  not.  Ferdinand  would  be  vexed  if  I  did  not  carry 
out  the  code  of  rules  drawn  up  for  his  wife,  and  I  am  afraid 
of  him.  Surrounded  by  all  this  hateful  splendor,  I  some- 
times look  back  with  regret,  and  begin  to  think  we  had  a 
kind  mother.  At  least  she  left  us  our  nights,  and  I  had  you 
to  talk  to.  In  my  sufferings,  then,  I  had  a  loving  compan- 
ion, but  this  gorgeous  house  is  a  desert  to  me." 

It  was  for  the  Countess  now  to  play  the  comforter.  As 
this  tale  of  misery  fell  from  her  sister's  lips  she  took  her 
hand  and  kissed  it  with  tears. 

"How  is  it  possible  for  me  to  help  you?"  Eugenie  went 
on  in  a  low  voice.  "If  he  were  to  find  us  together  he  would 
suspect  something.  He  would  want  to  know  what  we  had 
been  talking  about  this  hour,  and  it  is  not  easy  to  put  off 
the  scent  any  one  so  false  and  full  of  wiles.  He  would  be 
sure  to  lay  a  trap  for  me.  But  enough  of  my  troubles;  let 
us  think  of  you.  Your  forty  thousand  francs,  darling,  would 
be  nothing  to  Ferdinand.  He  and  the  Baron  de  Nucingen, 
another  of  these  rich  bankers,  are  accustomed  to  handle  mil- 
lions. Sometimes  at  dinner  I  hear  them  talking  of  things  to 
make  your  flesh  creep.  Du  Tillet  knows  I  am  no  talker,  so 
they  speak  freely  before  me,  confident  that  it  will  go  no 
further,  and  I  can  assure  you  that  highway  murder  would 
be  an  act  of  mercy  compared  to  some  of  their  financial 
schemes.  Nucingen  and  he  make  as  little  of  ruining  a  man 
as  I  do  of  all  their  display.  Among  the  people  who  come 
to  see  me,  often  there  are  poor  dupes  whose  affairs  I  have 
heard  settled  overnight,  and  who  are  plunging  into  specula- 
tions which  will  beggar  them.  How  I  long  to  act  Leonardo 
in  the  brigands'  cave,  and  cry,  'Beware!'  But  what  would 
become  of  me  ?  I  hold  my  tongue,  but  this  luxurious  man- 
sion is  nothing  but  a  den  of  cutthroats.  And  du  Tillet  and 


302  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Nucingen  scatter  banknotes  in  handfuls  for  any  whim  that 
takes  their  fancy.  Ferdinand  has  bought  the  site  of  the  old 
castle  at  Tillet,  and  intends  rebuilding  it,  and  then  adding 
a  forest  and  magnificent  grounds.  He  says  his  son  will  be 
a  count  and  his  grandson  a  peer.  Nucingen  is  tired  of  his 
house  in  the  Rue  Saint-Lazare  and  is  having  a  palace  built. 
His  wife  is  a  friend  of  mine.  .  .  .  Ah!"  she  cried,  "she 
might  be  of  use  to  us.  She  is  not  in  awe  of  her  husband, 
her  property  is  in  her  own  hands;  she  is  the  person  to  save 
you." 

"Darling,"  cried  Mme.  de  Vandenesse,  throwing  herself 
into  her  sister's  arms  and  bursting  into  tears,  "there  are  only 
a  few  hours  left.  Let  us  go  there  to-night,  this  very  instant. ' ' 

"How  can  I  go  out  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night  ?" 

"My  carriage  is  here." 

"Well,  what  are  you  two  plotting  here  ?"  It  was  du  Tillet 
who  threw  open  the  door  of  the  boudoir. 

A  false  geniality  lighted  up  the  blank  countenance  which 
met  the  sisters'  gaze.  They  had  been  too  much  absorbed  in 
talking  to  notice  the  wheels  of  du  Tillet's  carriage,  and  the 
thick  carpets  had  muffled  the  sound  of  his  steps.  The 
Countess,  who  had  an  indulgent  husband  and  was  well  used 
to  society,  had  acquired  a  tact  and  address  such  as  her  sis- 
ter, passing  straight  from  a  mother's  to  a  husband's  yoke, 
had  had  no  opportunity  of  cultivating.  She  was  able  then 
to  save  the  situation,  which  she  saw  that  Eugenie's  terror 
was  on  the  pointing  of  betraying,  by  a  frank  reply. 

"I  thought  my  sister  wealthier  than  she  is,"  she  said, 
looking  her  brother-in-law  in  the  face.  "Women  sometimes 
get  into  difficulties  which  they  don't  care  to  speak  of  to  their 
husbands — witness  Napoleon  and  Josephine — and  I  came  to 
ask  a  favor  of  her. ' ' 

"There  will  be  no  difficulty  about  that.  Eugenie  is  a  rich 
woman,"  replied  du  Tillet,  in  a  tone  of  honeyed  acerbity. 

"Only  for  you,"  said  the  Countess,  with  a  bitter  smile. 

"How  much  do  you  want?"  said  du  Tillet,  who  was  not 
sorry  at  the  prospect  of  getting  his  sister-in-law  into  his  toils. 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  303 

"How  dense  you  are!  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  we  want  to 
keep  our  husbands  out  of  this?"  was  the  prudent  reply  of 
Mme.  de  Vandenesse,  who  feared  to  place  herself  at  the 
mercy  of  the  man  whose  character  had  by  good  luck  just 
been  sketched  by  her  sister.  "I  shall  come  and  see  Eugenie 
to-morrow." 

"To-morrow?  No,"  said  the  banker  coldly.  "Mme. 
du  Tillet  dines  to-morrow  with  a  future  peer  of  the  realm, 
Baron  de  Nucingen,  who  is  resigning  to  me  his  seat  in  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies. ' ' 

"Won't  you  allow  her  to  accept  my  box  at  the  opera?" 
said  the  Countess,  without  exchanging  even  a  look  with  her 
sister,  in  her  terror  lest  their  secret  understanding  should  be 
betrayed. 

"Thank  you,  she  has  her  own,"  said  du  Tillet,  offended. 

"Very  well,  then,  I  shall  see  her  there,"  replied  the 
Countess. 

"It  will  be  the  first  time  you  have  done  us  that  honor," 
said  du  Tillet. 

The  Countess  felt  the  reproach  and  began  to  laugh. 

"Keep  your  mind  easy,  you  shan't  be  asked  to  pay  this 
time,"  she  said. — "Good-by,  darling." 

"The  jade!"  cried  du  Tillet,  picking  up  the  flowers  which 
had  fallen  from  the  Countess's  hair.  "You  would  do  well," 
he  said  to  his  wife,  "to  take  a  lesson  from  Mme.  de  Vande- 
nesse. I  should  like  to  see  you  as  saucy  in  society  as  she 
was  here  just  now.  Your  want  of  style  and  spirit  are  enough 
to  drive  a  man  wild." 

For  all  reply,  Eugdnie  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven. 

"Well,  madame,  what  have  you  two  been  about  here?'1 
said  the  banker  after  a  pause,  pointing  to  the  flowers.  '  'What 
has  happened  to  bring  your  sister  to  your  box  to-morrow?" 

In  order  to  get  away  to  her  bedroom,  and  escape  the  cross- 
questioning  she  dreaded,  the  poor  thrall  made  an  excuse  of 
being  sleepy.  But  du  Tillet  took  his  wife's  arm  and,  drag- 
ging her  back,  planted  her  before  him  beneath  the  full  blaze 
of  the  candles,  flaming  in  their  silver-gilt  branches  between 


304  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

two  beautiful  bunches  of  flowers.     Fixing  her  eyes  with  his 
keen  glance,  he  began  with  cold  deliberation. 

"Your  sister  came  to  borrow  forty  thousand  francs  to  pay 
the  debts  of  a  man  in  whom  she  is  interested,  and  who,  within 
three  days,  will  be  under  lock  and  key  in  the  Rue  de  Clichy. 
He's  too  precious  to  be  left  loose." 

The  miserable  woman  tried  to  repress  the  nervous  shiver 
which  ran  through  her. 

"You  gave  me  a  fright,"  she  said.  "But  you  know  that 
my  sister  has  too  much  principle  and  too  much  affection  for 
her  husband  to  take  that  sort  of  interest  in  any  man." 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  replied  dryly.  "Girls  brought  up 
as  you  were,  in  a  very  strait-laced  and  puritan  fashion,  al- 
ways pant  for  liberty  and  happiness,  and  the  happiness  they 
have  never  comes  up  to  what  they  imagined.  Those  are  the 
girls  that  make  bad  wives." 

"Speak  for  me  if  you  like,"  said  poor  Eugenie,  in  a  tone 
of  bitter  irony,  "but  respect  my  sister.  The  Comtesse  de 
Vandenesse  is  too  happy,  too  completely  trusted  by  her  hus- 
band, not  to  be  attached  to  him.  Besides,  supposing  what 
you  say  were  true,  she  would  not  have  told  me." 

"It  is  as  I  said,"  persisted  du  Tillet,  "and  I  forbid  you. 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  matter.  It  is  to  my  interest 
that  the  man  go  to  prison.  Let  that  suffice." 

Mine,  du  Tillet  left  the  room. 

"She  is  sure  to  disobey  me,"  said  du  Tillet  to  himself, 
left  alone  in  the  boudoir,  "and  if  I  keep  my  eye  on  them  I 
may  be  able  to  find  out  what  they  arc  up  to.  Poor  fools,  to 
pit  themselves  against  us!" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  to  rejoin  his  wife, 
or,  more  properly  speaking,  his  slave. 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  306 

CHAPTEE  III 

THE  STORY   OF  A   HAPPY   WOMAN 

rHE  CONFESSION  which  Mme.  Felix  de  Vande- 
nesse  had  poured  into  her  sister's  ear  was  so  inti- 
mately connected  with  her  history  during  the  six 
preceding  years  that  a  brief  narrative  of  the  chief  incidents 
of  her  married  life  is  necessary  to  its  understanding. 

Felix  de  Vandenesse  was  one  of  the  band  of  distinguished 
men  who  owed  their  fortune  to  the  Kestoration,  till  a  short- 
pighted  policy  excluded  them,  as  followers  of  Martignac, 
from  the  inner  circle  of  Government.  In  the  last  days  of 
Charles  X.  he  was  banished  with  some  others  to  the  Upper 
Chamber;  and  this  disgrace,  though  in  his  eyes  only  tem- 
porary, led  him  to  think  of  marriage.  He  was  the  more 
inclined  to  it  from  a  sort  of  nausea  of  intrigue  and  gal- 
lantry not  uncommon  with  men  when  the  hour  of  youth's 
gay  frenzy  is  past.  There  comes  then  a  critical  moment 
when  the  serious  side  of  social  ties  makes  itself  felt.  Felix 
de  Vandenesse  had  had  his  bright  and  his  dark  hours,  but 
the  latter  predominated,  as  is  apt  to  be  the  case  with  a  man 
who  has  quite  early  in  life  become  acquainted  with  passion 
in  its  noblest  form.  The  initiated  become  fastidious.  A 
long  experience  of  life  and  study  of  character  reconciles 
them  at  last  to  the  second  best,  when  they  take  refuge  in 
a  universal  tolerance.  Having  lost  all  illusions,  they  are 
proof  against  guile;  yet  they  wear  their  cynicism  with  a 
grace,  and,  being  prepared  for  the  worst,  are  saved  -the 
pangs  of  disappointment. 

In  spite  of  this,  Felix  still  passed  for  one  of  the  hand- 
somest and  most  agreeable  men  in  Paris.  With  women  his 
reputation  was  largely  due  to  one  of  the  noblest  of  their 
contemporaries,  who  was  said  to  have  died  of  a  broken 


306  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

heart  for  him;  but  it  was  the  beautiful  Lady  Dudley  who 
had  the  chief  hand  in  forming  him.  In  the  eyes  of  many 
Paris  ladies  Felix  was  a  hero  of  romance,  owing  not  a  few 
of  his  conquests  to  his  evil  repute.  Mademoiselle  de  Ma- 
nerville  had  closed  the  chapter  of  his  intrigues.  Although 
not  a  Don  Juan,  he  retired  from  the  world  of  love,  as  from 
that  of  politics,  a  disillusioned  man.  That  ideal  type  of 
woman  and  of  love  which,  for  his  misfortune,  had  bright- 
ened and  dominated  his  youth,  he  despaired  of  finding 
again.  At  the  age  of  thirty,  Count  Felix  resolved  to  cut 
short  by  marriage  pleasures  which  had  begun  to  pall.  On 
one  point  he  was  determined:  he  would  have  none  but  a 
girl  trained  in  the  strictest  dogmas  of  Catholicism.  No 
sooner  did  he  hear  how  the  Comtesse  de  Grranville  brought 
up  her  daughters  than  he  asked  for  the  hand  of  the  elder. 
His  own  mother  had  been  a  domestic  tyrant;  and  he  could 
still  remember  enough  of  his  dismal  childhood  to  descry, 
through  the  veil  of  maidenly  modesty,  what  effect  had 
been  produced  on  a  young  girl's  character  by  such  a  bond- 
age, to  see  whether  she  were  sulky,  soured,  and  inclined 
to  revolt,  or  had  remained  sweet  and  loving,  responsive  to 
the  voice  of  noble  feeling.  Tyranny  produces  two  results, 
exactly  opposite  in  character,  and  which  are  symbolized  in 
those  two  great  types  of  the  slave  in  classical  times — Epic- 
tetus  and  Spartacus.  The  one  is  hatred  with  its  evil  train, 
the  other,  meekness  with  its  Christian  graces.  The  Comte 
de  Vandenesse  read  the  history  of  his  life  again  in  Marie- 
Angelique  de  Granville. 

In  thus  choosing  for  wife  a  young  girl  in  her  fresh  inno- 
cence and  purity,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  beforehand,  as 
befitted  a  man  old  in  everything  but  years,  to  unite  pater- 
nal with  conjugal  affection.  He  was  conscious  that  in  him 
politics  and  society  had  blighted  feeling,  and  that  he  had 
only  the  dregs  of  a  used-up  life  to  offer  in  exchange  for 
one  in  the  bloom  of  youth.  The  flowers  of  spring  would 
be  matched  with  winter  frosts,  hoary  experience  with  a 
saucy,  impulsive  waywardness.  Having  thus  impartially 


A    DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  307 

taken  stock  of  his  position,  he  intrenched  himself  in  his 
married  quarters  with  an  ample  store  of  provisions.  In- 
dulgence and  trust  were  his  two  sheet  anchors.  Mothers 
with  marriageable  daughters  ought  to  look  out  for  men  of 
this  stamp,  men  with  brains  to  act  as  protecting  divinity, 
with  worldly  wisdom  to  diagnose  like  a  surgeon,  and  with 
experience  to  take  a  mother's  place  in  warding  off  evil. 
These  are  the  three  cardinal  virtues  in  matrimony. 

The  refinements  and  luxuries  to  which  his  habits  as  a 
man  of  fashion  and  of  pleasure  had  accustomed  Felix,  his 
training  in  affairs  of  state,  the  insight  of  a  life  alternately 
devoted  to  action,  reflection,  and  literature;  all  the  re- 
sources, in  short,  at  his  command  were  applied  intelli- 
gently to  work  out  his  wife's  happiness. 

Marie- Angelique  passed  at  once  from  the  maternal  pur- 
gatory to  the  wedded  paradise  prepared  for  her  by  Felix  in 
their  house  in  the  Eue  du  Eocher,  where  every  trifle  breathed 
of  distinction  at  the  same  time  that  the  conventions  of  fash- 
ion were  not  allowed  to  interfere  with  that  gracious  spon- 
taneity natural  to  warm  young  hearts.  She  began  by 
enjoying  to  the  full  the  merely  material  pleasures  of  life, 
her  husband  for  two  years  acting  as  major-domo.  Felix 
expounded  to  his  wife  very  gradually  and  with  great  tact 
the  facts  of  life,  initiated  her  by  degrees  into  the  mysteries 
of  the  best  society,  taught  her  the  genealogies  of  all  families 
of  rank,  instructed  her  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  directed  her 
in  the  arts  of  dress  and  conversation,  took  her  to  all  the  the- 
'  atres,  and  put  her  through  a  course  of  literature  and  history. 
He  carried  out  this  education  with  the  assiduity  of  a  lover,  a 
father,  a  master,  and  a  husband  combined;  but  with  a  wise 
discretion  he  allowed  neither  amusements  nor  studies  to  un- 
dermine his  wife's  faith.  In  short,  he  acquitted  himself  of 
his  task  in  a  masterly  manner,  and  had  the  gratification 
of  seeing  his  pupil,  at  the  end  of  four  years,  one  of  the 
most  charming  and  striking  women  of  her  time. 

Marie- Angelique's  feelings  toward  her  husband  were  pre- 
cisely such  as  he  wished  to  inspire — true  friendship,  lively 


308  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

gratitude,  sisterly  affection,  with  a  dash  of  wifely  fondness 
on  occasion,  not  passing  the  due  limits  of  dignity  and  self- 
respect.  She  was  a  good  mother  to  her  child. 

Thus  Felix,  without  any  appearance  of  coercion,  at- 
tached his  wife  to  himself  by  all  possible  ties,  reckoning 
on  the  force  of  habit  to  keep  his  heaven  cloudless.  Only 
men  practiced  in  worldly  arts  and  who  have  run  the  gamut 
of  disillusion  in  politics  and  love  have  the  knowledge  nec- 
essary for  acting  on  this  system.  Felix  found  in  it  also  the 
pleasure  which  painters,  authors,  and  great  architects  take  in 
their  work,  while  in  addition  to  the  artistic  delight  in  crea- 
tion he  had  the  satisfaction  of  contemplating  the  result  and 
admiring  in  his  wife  a  woman  of  polished  but  unaffected 
manners  and  an  unforced  wit,  a  maiden  and  a  mother, 
modestly  attractive,  unfettered  and  yet  bound. 

The  history  of  a  happy  household  is  like  that  of  a  pros- 
perous state;  it  can  be  summed  up  in  half  a  dozen  words, 
and  gives  no  scope  for  fine  writing.  Moreover,  as  the  only 
explanation  of  happiness  is  the  fact  that  it  exists,  these  four 
years  present  nothing  but  the  gray  wash  of  an  eternal  love- 
making,  insipid  as  manna,  and  as  exciting  as  the  romance  of 
Astraea. 

In  1833,  however,  this  edifice  of  happiness,  so  carefully 
put  together  by  Felix,  was  on  the  point  of  falling  to  the 
ground;  the  foundations  had  been  sapped  without  his 
knowledge.  The  fact  is,  the  heart  of  a  woman  of  five- 
and-twenty  is  not  that  of  a  girl  of  eighteen,  any  more  than 
the  heart  of  a  woman  of  forty  is  that  of  one  ten  years  * 
younger.  A  woman's  life  has  four  epochs  and  each  epoch 
creates  a  new  woman.  Vandenesse  was  certainly  not  igno- 
rant of  the  laws  which  determine  this  development,  induced 
by  our  modern  habits,  but  he  neglected  to  apply  them  in 
his  own  case.  Thus  the  soundest  grammarian  may  be 
caught  tripping  when  he  turns  author;  the  greatest  gen- 
eral on  the  field  of  battle,  under  stress  of  fire,  and  at  the 
mercy  of  the  accidents  of  the  ground,  will  cast  to  the  winds 
a  theoretic  rule  of  military  science.  The  man  whose  action 


A    DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  309 

habitually  bears  the  stamp  of  his  mind  is  a  genius,  but  the 
greatest  genius  is  not  always  equal  to  himself ,  or  he  would 
cease  to  be  human. 

Four  years  had  passed  of  unruffled  calm,  four  years  of 
tuneful  concert  without  one  jarring  note.  The  Countess, 
under  these  influences,  felt  her  nature  expanding  like  a 
healthy  plant  in  good  soil  under  the  warm  kisses  of  a  sun 
shining  in  unclouded  azure,  and  she  now  began  to  question 
her  heart.  The  crisis  in  her  life,  which  this  tale  is  to  un- 
fold, would  be  unintelligible  but  for  some  explanations 
which  may  perhaps  extenuate  in  the  eyes  of  women  the 
guilt  of  this  young  Countess,  happy  wife  and  happy 
mother,  who  at  first  sight  might  seem  inexcusable. 

Life  is  the  result  of  a  balance  between  two  opposing 
forces;  the  absence  of  either  is  injurious  to  the  creature. 
Vandenesse,  in  piling  up  satisfaction,  had  quenched  de- 
sire, that  lord  of  the  universe,  at  whose  disposal  lie  vast 
stores  of  moral  energy.  Extreme  heat,  extreme  suffering, 
unalloyed  happiness,  like  all  abstract  principles,  reign  over 
a  barren  desert.  They  demand  solitude,  and  will  suffer  no 
existence  but  their  own.  Vandenesse  was  not  a  woman, 
and  it  is  women  only  who  know  the  art  of  giving  variety 
to  a  state  of  bliss.  Hence  their  coquetry,  their  coldness, 
their  tremors,  their  tempers,  and  that  ingenious  battery  of 
unreason,  by  which  they  demolish  to-day  what  yesterday 
they  found  entirely  satisfactory.  Constancy  in  a  man  may 
pall,  in  a  woman  never.  Vandenesse  was  too  thoroughly 
good-hearted  wantonly  to  plague  the  woman  he  loved;  the 
heaven  into  which  he  plunged  her  could  not  be  too  ardent 
or  too  cloudless.  The  problem  of  perpetual  felicity  is  one 
the  solution  of  which  is  reserved  for  another  and  higher 
world.  Here  below,  even  the  most  inspired  of  poets  do 
not  fail  to  bore  their  readers  when  they  attempt  to  sing  of 
Paradise.  The  rock  on  which  Dante  split  was  to  be  the 
ruin  also  of  Vandenesse:  all  honor  to  a  desperate  courage! 

His  wife  began  at  last  to  find  so  well-regulated  an  Eden 
a  little  monotonous.  The  perfect  happiness  of  Eve  in  her 


310  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

terrestrial  paradise  produced  in  her  the  nausea  which  comes 
from  living  too  much  on  sweets.  A  longing  seized  her,  as 
it  seized  Eivarol  on  reading  Florian,  to  come  across  some 
wolf  in  the  sheepfold.  This,  it  appears,  has  been  the  mean- 
ing in  all  ages  of  that  symbolical  serpent  to  whom  the  first 
woman  made  advances,  some  day  no  doubt  when  she  was 
feeling  bored.  The  moral  of  this  may  not  commend  itself 
to  certain  Protestants  who  take  Genesis  more  seriously  than 
the  Jews  themselves,"  but  the  situation  of  Mme.  de  Vande- 
nesse  requires  no  biblical  images  to  explain  it.  She  was 
conscious  of  a  force  within,  which  found  no  exercise.  She 
was  happy,  but  her  happiness  caused  her  no  pangs;  it  was 
placid  and  uneventful;  she  was  not  haunted  by  the  dread 
of  losing  it.  It  arrived  every  morning  with  the  same  smile 
and  sunshine,  the  same  soft  words.  Not  a  zephyr's  breath 
wrinkled  this  calm  expanse;  she  longed  for  a  ripple  on  the 
glassy  surface. 

There  was  something  childish  in  all  this,  which  may 
partly  excuse  her;  but  society  is  no  more  lenient  in  its 
judgments  than  was  the  Jehovah  of  Genesis.  The  Coun- 
tess was  quite  enough  woman  of  the  world  now  to  know 
how  improper  these  feelings  were,  and  nothing  would 
have  induced  her  to  confide  them  to  her  "darling  hus- 
band." This  was  the  most  impassioned  epithet  her  inno- 
cence could  devise,  for  it  is  given  to  no  one  to  forge  in 
cold  blood  that  delicious  language  of  hyperbole  which  love 
dictates  to  its  victims  at  the  stake.  Vandenesse,  pleased 
with  this  pretty  reserve,  applied  his  arts  to  keep  his  wife 
within  the  temperate  zone  of  wedded  fervor.  Moreover, 
this  model  husband  wanted  to  be  loved  for  himself, 
and  judged  unworthy  of  an  honorable  man  those  tricks 
of  the  trade  which  might  have  imposed  upon  his  wife 
or  awakened  her  feeling.  He  would  owe  nothing  to  the 
expedients  of  wealth.  The  Comtesse  Marie  would  smile 
to  see  a  shabby  turn-out  in  the  Bois,  and  turn  her  eyes 
complacently  to  her  own  elegant  equipage  and  the  horses 
which,  harnessed  in  the  English  fashion,  moved  with  very 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  311 

free  action  and  kept  their  distance  perfectly.  Felix  would 
not  stoop  to  gather  the  fruit  of  all  his  labors;  his  lavish 
expenditure,  and  the  good  taste  which  guided  it,  were  ac- 
cepted as  a  matter  of  course  by  his  wife,  ignorant  that 
to  them  she  owed  her  perfect  immunity  from  vexations 
or  wounding  comparisons.  It  was  the  same  throughout. 
Kindness  is  not  without  its  rocks  ahead.  People  are 
apt  to  put  it  down  to  an  easy  temper,  and  seldom  recog- 
nize it  as  the  secret  striving  of  a  generous  nature;  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  ill-natured  get  credit  for  all  the 
evil  they  refrain  from. 

About  this  period  Mme.  de  Vandenesse  was  sufficiently 
drilled  in  the  practices  of  society  to  abandon  the  insignificant 
part  of  timid  supernumerary,  all  eyes  and  ears,  which  even 
Grisi  is  said,  once  on  a  time,  to  have  played  in  the  choruses 
of  the  La  Scala  theatre.  The  young  Countess  felt  herself 
equal  to  the  part  of  prima  donna  and  made  some  essays  in 
it.  To  the  great  satisfaction  of  Felix,  she  began  to  take  her 
share  in  conversation.  Sharp  repartees  and  shrewd  reflec- 
tions, which  were  the  fruit  of  talks  with  her  husband,  brought 
her  into  notice,  and  this  success  emboldened  her.  Vande- 
nesse, whose  wife  had  always  been  allowed  to  be  pretty,  was 
charmed  when  she  showed  herself  clever  also.  On  her  re- 
turn from  the  ball  or  concert  or  rout  where  she  had  shone, 
Marie,  as  she  laid  aside  her  finery,  would  turn  to  Felix  and 
say  with  a  little  air  of  prim  delight,  "Please,  have  I  done 
well  to-night?" 

At  this  stage  the  Countess  began  to  rouse  jealousy  in  the 
breasts  of  certain  women,  among  whom  was  the  Marquise  de 
Listomere,  her  husband's  sister,  who  hitherto  had  patronized 
Marie,  looking  on  her  as  a  good  foil  for  her  own  charms. 
Poor  innocent  victim!  A  Countess  with  the  sacred  name 
of  Marie,  beautiful,  witty,  and  good,  a  musician  and  not  a 
flirt — no  wonder  society  whetted  its  teeth!  Felix  de  Vande- 
nesse numbered  among  his  acquaintance  several  women  who 
— although  their  connection  with  him  was  broken  off,  whether 
by  their  own  doing  or  his — were  by  no  means  indifferent  to 


312  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

his  marriage.  When  these  ladies  saw  in  Marie  de  Vande- 
nesse  a  sheepish  little  woman  with  red  hands,  rather  silent, 
and  to  all  appearance  stupid  also,  they  considered  themselves 
sufficiently  avenged. 

Then  came  the  disasters  of  July,  1830,  and  for  the  space 
of  two  years  society  was  broken  up.  Rich  people  spent  the 
troubled  interval  on  their  estates  or  travelling  in  Europe; 
and  the  salons  hardly  reopened  before  1833.  The  Faubourg 
Saint-Germain  sulked,  but  it  admitted  as  neutral  ground  a 
few  houses,  among  others,  that  of  the  Ambassador  of  Aus- 
tria. In  these  select  rooms  legitimist  society  and  the  new 
society  met,  represented  by  their  most  fashionable  leaders. 
Vandenesse,  though  strong  in  his  convictions  and  attached 
by  a  thousand  ties  of  sympathy  and  gratitude  to  the  exiled 
family,  did  not  feel  himself  bound  to  follow  his  party  in  its 
stupid  fanaticism.  At  a  critical  moment  he  had  performed 
his  duty  at  the  risk  of  life  by  breasting  the  flood  of  popular 
fury  in  order  to  propose  a  compromise.  He  could  afford 
therefore  to  take  his  wife  into  a  society  which  could  not 
possibly  expose  his  good  faith  to  suspicion. 

Vandenesse's  former  friends  hardly  recognized  the  young 
bride  in  the  graceful,  sparkling,  and  gentle  Countess,  who 
took  her  place  with  all  the  breeding  of  the  highborn  lady. 
Mmes.  d'Espard  and  de  Manerville,  Lady  Dudley,  and  other 
ladies  of  less  distinction  felt  the  stirring  of  a  brood  of  vipers 
in  their  hearts ;  the  dulcet  moan  of  angry  pride  piped  in  their 
ears.  The  happiness  of  Felix  enraged  them,  and  they  would 
have  given  a  brand-new  pair  of  shoes  to  do  him  an  ill  turn. 
In  place  of  showing  hostility  to  the  Countess,  these  amiable 
intriguers  buzzed  about  her  with  protestations  of  extreme 
friendliness  and  sang  her  praises  to  their  male  friends.  Fe*- 
lix,  who  perfectly  understood  their  little  game,  kept  his  eye 
upon  their  intercourse  with  Marie  and  warned  her  to  be  upon 
her  guard.  Divining,  every  one  of  them,  the  anxiety  which 
their  assiduity  caused  the  Count,  they  could  not  pardon  his 
suspicions.  They  redoubled  their  flattering  attentions  to 
their  rival,  and  in  this  way  contrived  an  immense  success 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  313 

for  her,  to  the  disgust  of  the  Marquise  de  Listom&re,  who 
was  quite  in  the  dark  about  it  all.  The  Comtesse  Felix  de 
Vandenesse  was  everywhere  pointed  to  as  the  most  charming 
and  brilliant  woman  in  Paris;  and  Marie's  other  sister-in-law, 
the  Marquise  Charles  de  Yandenesse,  endured  many  mortifi- 
cations from  the  confusion  produced  by  the  similarity  of 
name  and  the  comparisons  to  which  it  gave  rise.  For, 
though  the  Marquise  was  also  a  handsome  and  clever  wo- 
man, the  Countess  had  the  advantage  of  her  in  being  twelve 
years  younger,  a  point  of  which  her  rivals  did  not  fail  to  make 
use.  They  well  knew  what  bitterness  the  success  of  the 
Countess  would  infuse  into  her  relations  with  her  sisters- 
in-law,  who,  indeed,  were  most  chilling  and  disagreeable  to 
Marie- Angelique  in  her  triumph. 

And  so  danger  lurked  in  the  family,  enmity  in  friendship. 
It  is  well  known  how  the  literature  of  that  day  tried  to  over- 
come the  indifference  of  the  public,  engrossed  in  the  exciting 
political  drama,  by  the  production  of  more  or  less  Byronio 
works,  exclusively  occupied  with  illicit  love  affairs.  Conju- 
gal infidelity  furnished  at  this  time  the  sole  material  of  mag- 
azines, novels,  and  plays.  This  perennial  theme  came  more 
than  ever  into  fashion.  The  lover,  that  nightmare  of  the 
husband,  was  everywhere,  except  perhaps  in  the  family  cir- 
cle, which  saw  less  of  him  during  that  reign  of  the  middle- 
class  than  at  any  other  period.  When  the  streets  are  ablaze 
with  light  and  "Stop  thief"  is  shouted  from  every  window, 
it  is  hardly  the  moment  robbers  choose  to  be  abroad.  If,  in 
the  course  of  those  years,  so  fruitful  in  civic,  political,  and 
moral  upheavals,  an  occasional  domestic  misadventure  took 
place,  it  was  exceptional  and  attracted  less  notice  than  it 
would  have  done  under  the  Eestoration.  Nevertheless, 
women  talked  freely  among  themselves  of  a  subject  in  which 
both  lyric  and  dramatic  poetry  then  revelled.  The  lover, 
that  being  so  rare  and  so  bewitching,  was  a  favorite  theme. 
The  few  intrigues  which  came  to  light  supplied  matter  for 
such  conversation,  which,  then  as  ever,  was  confined  to 
women  of  unexceptionable  life.  The  repugnance  to  thia 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC— 14 


814  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

sort  of  talk  shown  by  women  who  have  a  stolen  joy  to 
conceal  is  indeed  a  noteworthy  fact.  They  are  the  prudes 
of  society,  cautious,  and  even  bashful;  their  attitude  is  one 
of  perpetual  appeal  for  silence  or  pardon.  On  the  other 
hand,  when  a  woman  takes  pleasure  in  hearing  of  such  dis- 
asters and  is  curious  about  the  temptations  which  lead  to 
them,  you  may  be  sure  she  is  halting  at  the  crossroads  un- 
certain and  hesitating. 

During  this  winter  the  Comtesse  de  Vandenesse  caught 
the  distant  roll  of  society's  thunder,  and  the  rising  storm 
whistled  about  her  ears.  Her  so-called  friends,  whose  repu- 
tations were  under  the  safeguard  of  exalted  rank  and  posi- 
tion, drew  many  sketches  of  the  irresistible  gallant  for  her 
benefit,  and  dropped  into  her  heart  burning  words  about 
love,  the  one  solution  of  life  for  women,  the  master  passion, 
according  to  Mme.  de  Stael,  who  did  not  speak  without  ex- 
perience. When  the  Countess,  in  a  friendly  conclave,  naively 
asked  why  a  lover  was  so  different  from  a  husband,  not  one 
of  these  women  failed  to  reply  in  such  a  way  as  to  pique  her 
curiosity,  haunt  her  imagination,  touch  her  heart,  and  inter- 
est her  mind.  They  burned  to  see  Vandenesse  in  trouble. 

"With  one's  husband,  dear,  one  simply  rubs  along;  with 
a  lover  it's  life,"  said  her  sister-in-law,  the  Marquise  de 
Vandenesse. 

"Marriage,  my  child,  is  our  purgatory,  love  is  paradise," 
Baid  Lady  Dudley. 

"Don't  believe  her,"  cried  Mile,  des  Touches,  "it's  hell!" 

"Yes,  but  a  hell  with  love  in  it, ".observed  the  Marquise 
de  Rochefide.  "There  may  be  more  satisfaction  in  suffering 
than  in  an  easy  life.  Look  at  the  martyrs!" 

"Little  simpleton,"  said  the  Marquise  d'Espard,  "in 
marriage  we  live,  so  to  speak,  our  own  life;  loVe  is  living 
in  another." 

"In  short,  a  lover  is  the  forbidden  fruit,  and  that's  enough 

for  me!"  laughingly  spoke  the  pretty  Moina  de  Saint-He'ren. 

~When  there  were  no  diplomatic  at  homes,  or  balls  given 

by  wealthy  foreigners,  such  as  Lady  Dudley  or  the  Princesse 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  315 

de  Galathionne,  the  Countess  went  almost  every  evening  after 
the  opera  to  one  of  the  few  aristocratic  drawing-rooms  still 
open — whether  that  of  the  Marquise  d'Espard,  Mme.  de  Lis- 
tomere,  Mile,  des  Touches,  the  Comtesse  de  Montcornet,  or 
the  Vicomtesse  de  Grandlieu.  Never  did  she  leave  these 
gatherings  without  some  seeds  of  evil  scattered  in  her  soul. 
She  heard  talk  about  "completing  her  life,"  an  expression 
much  in  vogue  then,  or  about  being  "understood,"  another 
word  to  which  women  attach  marvellous  meanings.  She 
would  return  home  uneasy,  pensive,  dreamy,  and  curious. 
Her  life  seemed  somehow  impoverished,  but  aiie  had  not  yet 
gone  so  far  as  to  feel  it  entirely  barren. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A    MAN    OF     NOTE 

MOST  LIVELY,  but  also  the  most  mixed,  com- 
pany to  be  found  in  any  of  the  houses  where  Mme. 
de  Vandenesse  visited,  was  decidedly  that  which  met 
at  the  Comtesse  de  Montcornet's.  She  was  a  charming  little 
woman  who  opened  her  doors  to  distinguished  artists,  com- 
mercial princes,  and  celebrated  literary  men;  but  the  tests 
to  which  she  submitted  them  before  admission  were  so  rigor- 
ous that  the  most  exclusive  need  not  fear  rubbing  up  against 
persons  of  an  inferior  grade;  the  most  unapproachable  were 
safe  from  pollution.  During  the  winter,  society  (which  never 
loses  its  rights,  and  at  all  costs  will  be  amused)  began  to  rally 
again,  and  a  few  drawing-rooms — including  those  of  Mmes. 
d'Espard  and  de  Listomere,  of  Mile,  des  Touches,  and  of  the 
Duchesse  de  Grandlieu — had  picked  up  recruits  from  among 
the  latest  celebrities  in  art,  science,  literature,  and  politics. 
At  a  concert  given  by  the  Comtesse  de  Montcornet,  toward 
the  end  of  the  winter,  Raoul  Nathan,  a  well-known  name  in 
literature  and  politics,  made  his  entry,  introduced  by  Emile 


316  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Blondet,  a  very  brilliant  but  also  very  indolent  writer. 
Blondet  too  was  a  celebrity,  but  only  among  the  initiated 
few ;  much  made  of  by  the  critics,  he  was  unknown  to  the 
general  public.  Blondet  was  perfectly  aware  of  this,  and  in 
general  was  a  man  of  few  illusions.  In  regard  to  fame,  he 
said,  among  other  disparaging  remarks,  that  it  was  a  poison 
best  taken  in  small  doses. 

Eaoul  Nathan  had  a  long  struggle  before  emerging  to  the 
surface.  Having  reached  it,  he  had  at  once  made  capital  out 
of  that  sudden  craze  for  external  form  then  distinguishing 
certain  exquisites,  who  swore  by  the  Middle  Ages,  and  were 
humorously  known  as  "young  France."  He  adopted  the 
eccentricities  of  genius,  and  enrolled  himself  among  these 
worshippers  of  art,  whose  intentions  at  least  we  cannot  but 
admire,  since  nothing  is  more  absurd  than  the  dress  of  a 
Frenchman  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  courage  was 
needed  to  change  it.  Raoul,  to  do  him  justice,  has  some- 
thing unusual  and  fantastic  in  his  person,  which  seems  to 
demand  a  setting.  His  enemies  or  his  friends — there  is  little 
to  choose  between  them — are  agreed  that  nothing  in  the  world 
so  well  matches  the  inner  Nathan  as  the  outer.  He  would 
probably  look  even  more  remarkable  if  left  to  nature  than 
he  is  when  touched  by  art.  His  worn  and  wasted  features 
suggest  a  wrestling  with  spirits,  good  or  evil.  His  face  has 
some  likeness  to  that  which  German  painters  give  to  the  dead 
Christ,  and  bears  innumerable  traces  of  a  constant  struggle 
between  weak  human  nature  and  the  powers  on  high.  But 
the  deep  hollows  of  his  cheeks,  the  knobs  on  his  craggy  and 
furrowed  skull,  the  cavities  round  his  eyes  and  temples,  point 
to  nothing  weak  in  the  constitution.  There  is  remarkable 
solidity  about  the  tough  tissues  and  prominent  bones;  and 
though  the  skin,  tanned  by  excess,  sticks  to  them  as  though 
parched  by  some  fire  within,  it  none  the  less  covers  a  massive 
framework.  He  is  tall  and  thin.  His  long  hair,  which  al- 
ways needs  brushing,  aims  at  effect.  He  is  a  Byron,  badly 
groomed  and  badly  put  together,  with  legs  like  a  heron's, 
congested  knees,  an  exaggeratedly  small  waist,  a  hand  with 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  317 

muscles  of  whip-cord,  the  grip  of  a  crab's  claw,  and  lean, 
nervous  fingers. 

Eaoul's  eyes  are  Napoleonic,  blue  and  soul -piercing;  his 
nose  is  sensitive  and  finely  chiselled,  his  mouth  charming 
and  adorned  with  teeth  white  enough  to  excite  a  woman's 
envy.  There  is  life  and  fire  in  the  head,  genius  on  the 
brow.  Eaoul  belongs  to  the  small  number  of  men  who 
would  not  pass  unnoticed  in  the  street,  and  who,  in  a  draw- 
ing-room, at  once  form  a  centre  of  light,  drawing  all  eyes. 
He  attracts  attention  by  his  neglige,  if  one  may  borrow  from 
Moliere  the  word  used  by  Eliante  to  describe  personal  sloven- 
liness. His  clothes  look  as  though  they  had  been  pulled 
about,  frayed,  and  crumpled  on  purpose  to  harmonize  with 
his  countenance.  He  habitually  thrusts  one  hand  into  his 
open  waistcoat  in  the  pose  which  Girodet:s  portrait  of  Cha- 
teaubriand has  made  famous,  but  not  so  much  for  the  sake 
of  copying  Chateaubriand  (he  would  disdain  to  copy  any 
one)  as  to  take  the  stiffness  out  of  his  shirt  front.  His  tie 
becomes  all  in  a  moment  a  mere  wisp,  from  a  trick  he  has 
of  throwing  back  his  head  with  a  sudden  convulsive  move- 
ment, like  that  of  a  race-horse  champing  its  bit  and  tossing 
its  head  in  the  effort  to  break  loose  from  bridle  and  curb. 
His  long,  pointed  beard  is  very  different  from  that  of  the 
dandy,  combed,  brushed,  scented,  sleek,  shaped  like  a  fan 
or  cut  into  a  peak;  Nathan's  is  left  entirely  to  nature.  His 
hair,  caught  in  by  his  coat-collar  and  tie,  and  lying  thick 
upon  his  shoulders,  leaves  a  grease  spot  wherever  it  rests. 
His  dry,  stringy  hands  are  innocent  of  nail-brush  or  the  lux- 
ury of  a  lemon.  There  are  even  journalists  who  declare  that 
only  on  rare  occasions  is  their  grimy  skin  laved  in  baptismal 
waters. 

In  a  word,  this  awe-inspiring  Eaoul  is  a  caricature.  He 
moves  in  a  jerky  way,  as  though  propelled  by  some  faulty 
machinery;  and  when  walking  the  boulevards  of  Paris  he 
offends  all  sense  of  order  by  impetuous  zigzags  and  unex- 
pected halts,  which  bring  him  into  collision  with  peaceful 
citizens  as  they  stroll  along.  His  conversation,  full  of  caus- 


818  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

tic  humor  and  stinging  epigrams,  imitates  the  gait  of  his 
body;  of  a  sudden  it  will  drop  the  tone  of  fury  to  become, 
for  no  apparent  reason,  gracious,  dreamy,  soothing,  and  gen- 
tle ;  then  come  unaccountable  pauses  or  mental  somersaults, 
which  at  times  grow  fatiguing.  In  society  he  does  not  con- 
ceal an  unblushing  awkwardness,  a  scorn  of  convention,  and 
an  attitude  of  criticism  toward  things  usually  held  in  respect 
there,  which  make  him  objectionable  to  plain  people,  as  well 
as  to  those  who  strive  to  keep  up  the  traditions  of  old-world 
courtliness.  Yet,  after  all,  he  is  an  oddity,  like  a  Chinese 
image,  and  women  have  a  weakness  for  such  things.  Be- 
sides, with  women  he  often  puts  on  an  air  of  elaborate  suav- 
ity, and  seems  to  take  a  pleasure  in  making  them  forget  his 
grotesque  exterior,  and  in  vanquishing  their  antipathy.  This 
is  a  salve  to  his  vanity,  his  self-esteem,  and  his  pride. 

"Why  do  you  behave  so?"  said  the  Marquise  de  Vande- 
nesse  to  him  one  day. 

"Are  not  pearls  found  in  oyster  shells?"  was  the  pom- 
pous reply. 

To  some  one  else,  who  put  a  similar  question,  he  an- 
swered: "If  I  made  myself  agreeable  to  every  one,  what 
should  I  have  left  for  her  whom  I  design  to  honor  su- 
premely ? ' ' 

Raoul  Nathan  carries  into  his  intellectual  life  the  irregu- 
larity which  he  has  made  his  badge.  Nor  is  the  device  mis- 
leading: like  poor  girls,  who  go  out  as  maids-of-all-work  in 
humble  homes,  he  can  turn  his  hand  to  anything.  He  began 
with  serious  criticism,  but  soon  became  convinced  that  this 
was  a  losing  trade.  His  articles,  he  said,  cost  as  much  as 
books.  The  profits  of  the  theatre  attracted  him,  but,  inca- 
pable of  the  slow,  sustained  labor  involved  in  putting  any- 
thing on  the  boards,  he  was  driven  to  ally  himself  with  du 
Bruel,  who  worked  up  his  ideas  and  converted  them  into 
light  paying  pieces  with  plenty  of  humor,  and  composed  in 
view  of  some  particular  actor  or  actress.  Between  them  they 
unearthed  Florine,  a  popular  actress. 

Ashamed,  however,  of  this  Siamese-like  union,  Nathan, 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  319 

unaided,  brought  out  at  the  Theatre  Fran$ais  a  great  drama, 
which  fell  with  all  the  honors  of  war  amid  salvoes  from  the 
artillery  of  the  press.  In  his  youth  he  had  already  tried 
the  theatre  which  represents  the  fine  traditions  of  the  French 
drama  with  a  splendid  romantic  play  in  the  style  of  "Pinto," 
and  this  at  a  time  when  classicism  held  undisputed  sway. 
The  result  was  that  the  Ode'on  became  for  three  nights  the 
scene  of  such  disorder  that  the  piece  had  to  be  stopped.  The 
second  play,  no  less  than  the  first,  seemed  to  many  people  a 
masterpiece,  and  it  won  for  him,  though  only  within  the  se- 
lect world  of  judges  and  connoisseurs,  a  far  higher  reputation 
than  the  light  remunerative  pieces  at  which  he  worked  with 
others. 

"One  more  such  failure,"  said  Emile  Blondet,  "and  you 
will  be  immortal." 

But  Nathan,  instead  of  sticking  to  this  arduous  path,  was 
driven  by  stress  of  poverty  to  fall  back  upon  more  profitable 
work,  such  as  the  production  of  spectacular  pieces  or  of  an 
eighteenth  century  powder  and  patches  vaudeville,  and  the 
adaptation  of  popular  novels  to  the  stage.  Nevertheless,  he 
was  still  counted  as  a  man  of  great  ability,  whose  last  word 
had  not  yet  been  heard.  He  made  an  excursion  also  into 
pure  literature  and  published  three  novels,  not  reckoning 
those  which  he  kept  going  in  the  press,  like  fishes  in  an 
aquarium.  As  often  happens,  when  a  writer  has  stuff  in 
him  for  only  one  work,  the  first  of  these  three  was  a  bril- 
liant success.  Its  author  rashly  put  it  at  once  in  the  front 
rank  of  his  works  as  an  artistic  creation,  and  lost  no  oppor- 
tunity of  getting  it  puffed  as  the  "finest  book  of  the  period," 
the  "novel  of  the  century." 

Yet  he  complained  loudly  of  the  exigencies  of  art,  and 
did  as  much  as  any  man  toward  having  it  accepted  as  the  one 
standard  for  all  kinds  of  creative  work — painting,  sculpture, 
literature,  architecture.  He  had  begun  by  perpetrating  a 
book  of  verse,  which  won  him  a  place  in  the  pleiad  of  poets 
of  the  day,  and  which  contained  one  obscure  poem  that  was 
greatly  admired.  Compelled  by  straitened  circumstances  to 


320  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

go  on  producing,  he  turned  from  the  theatre  to  the  press,  and 
from  the  press  back  to  the  theatre,  breaking  up  and  scattering 
his  powers,  but  with  unshaken  confidence  in  his  inspiration. 
He  did  not  suffer,  therefore,  from  lack  of  a  publisher  for  his 
fame,  differing  in  this  from  certain  celebrities,  whose  flicker- 
ing flame  is  kept  from  extinction  by  the  titles  of  books  still 
in  the  future,  for  which  a  public  will  be  a  more  pressing 
necessity  than  a  new  edition. 

Nathan  came  near  to  being  a  genius,  and,  had  destiny 
crowned  his  ambition  by  marching  him  to  the  scaffold,  he 
would  have  been  justified  in  striking  his  forehead  after  An- 
dre" de  Chdnier.  The  sudden  accession  to  power  of  a  dozen 
authors,  professors,  metaphysicians,  and  historians  fired  him 
with  emulation,  and  he  regretted  not  having  devoted  his  pen 
to  politics  rather  than  to  literature.  He  believed  himself  su- 
perior to  these  upstarts,  who  had  foisted  themselves  on  to 
the  party-machine  during  the  troubles  of  1830-33  and  whose 
fortune  now  filled  him  with  consuming  envy.  He  belonged 
to  the  type  of  man  who  covets  everything  and  looks  on  all 
success  as  a  fraud  on  himself,  who  is  always  stumbling  on 
some  luminous  track  but  settles  down  nowhere,  drawing  all 
the  while  on  the  tolerance  of  his  neighbors.  At  this  moment 
he  was  travelling  from  Saint-Simonism  to  Republicanism, 
which  might  serve,  perhaps,  as  a  stage  to  Ministerialism. 
His  eye  swept  every  corner  for  some  bone  to  pick,  some  safe 
shelter  whence  he  might  bark  beyond  the  reach  of  kicks,  and 
make  himself  a  terror  to  the  passers-by.  He  had,  however, 
the  mortification  of  finding  himself  not  taken  seriously  by 
the  great  de  Marsay,  then  at  the  head  of  affairs,  who  had  a 
low  opinion  of  authors  as  lacking  in  what  Eichelieu  called 
the  logical  spirit,  or  rather  in  coherence  of  ideas.  Besides, 
no  minister  could  have  failed  to  reckon  on  Raoul's  constant 
pecuniary  difficulties  which,  sooner  or  later,  would  drive  him 
into  the  position  of  accepting  rather  than  imposing  conditions. 

Raoul's  real  and  studiously  suppressed  character  accords 
with  that  which  he  shows  to  the  public.  He  is  carried  away 
by  his  own  acting,  declaims  with  great  eloquence,  and  could 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  321 

not  be  more  self-centred  were  he,  like  Louis  XIY.,  the  State 
in  person.  None  knows  better  how  to  play  at  sentiment  or 
to  deck  himself  out  in  a  shoddy  greatness.  The  grace  of 
moral  beauty  and  the  language  of  self-respect  are  at  his  com- 
mand, he  is  a  very  A  Ices  te  in  pose,  while  acting  like  Philinte. 
His  selfishness  ambles  along  under  cover  of  this  painted  card- 
board, and  not  seldom  attains  the  end  he  has  in  view.  Ex- 
cessively idle,  he  never  works  except  under  the  prick  of 
necessity.  Continuous  labor  applied  to  the  construction  of 
a  lasting  fabric  is  beyond  his  conception ;  but  in  a  paroxysm 
of  rage,  the  result  of  wounded  vanity,  or  in  some  crisis  pre- 
cipitated by  his  creditors,  he  will  leap  the  Eurotas  and  per- 
form miracles  of  mental  forestalment;  after  which,  worn  out 
and  amazed  at  his  own  fertility,  he  falls  back  into  the  ener- 
vating dissipations  of  Paris  life.  Does  necessity  once  more 
threaten,  he  has  no  strength  to  meet  it;  he  sinks  a  step  and 
traffics  with  his  honor.  Impelled  by  a  false  idea  of  his  tal- 
ents and  his  future,  founded  on  the  rapid  rise  of  one  of  his 
old  comrades  (one  of  the  few  cases  of  administrative  ability 
brought  to  light  by  the  Eevolution  of  July),  he  tries  to 
regain  his  footing  by  taking  liberties  with  his  friends,  which 
are  nothing  short  of  a  moral  outrage,  though  they  remain 
buried  among  the  skeletons  of  private  life,  without  a  word 
of  comment  or  blame. 

His  heart  devoid  of  nicety,  his  shameless  hand,  hail- 
fellow-well-met  with  every  vice,  every  degradation,  every 
treachery,  every  party,  have  placed  him  as  much  beyond 
reach  of  attack  as  a  constitutional  king.  The  peccadillo, 
which  would  raise  hue  and  cry  after  a  man  of  high  char- 
acter, counts  for  nothing  in  him;  while  conduct  bordering 
on  grossness  is  barely  noticed.  In  making  his  excuses  peo- 
ple find  their  own.  The  very  man  who  would  fain  despise 
him  shakes  him  by  the  hand,  fearing  to  need  his  help.  So 
numerous  are  his  friends  that  he  would  prefer  enemies.  This 
surface  good-nature,  which  captivates  a  new  acquaintance  and 
is  no  bar  to  treachery,  which  knows  no  scruple  and  is  never 
at  fault  for  an  excuse,  which  makes  an  outcry  at  the  wound 


322  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

which  it  condones,  is  one  of  the  most  distinctive  features  of 
the  journalist.  This  camaraderie  (the  word  is  a  stroke  of 
genius)  corrodes  the  noblest  minds;  it  eats  into  their  pride 
like  rust,  kills  the  germ  of  great  deeds,  and  lends  a  sanction 
to  moral  cowardice.  There  are  men  who,  by  exacting  this 
general  slackness  of  conscience,  get  themselves  absolved  for 
playing  the  traitor  and  the  turncoat.  Thus  it  is  that  the 
most  enlightened  portion  of  the  nation  becomes  the  least 
worthy  of  respect. 

From  the  literary  point  of  view,  Nathan  is  deficient  in 
style  and  information.  Like  most  young  aspirants  in  litera- 
ture he  gives  out  to-day  what  he  learned  yesterday.  He  has 
neither  the  time  nor  the  patience  to  make  an  author.  He 
does  not  use  his  own  eyes,  but  can  pick  up  from  others,  and, 
while  he  fails  in  producing  a  vigorously  constructed  plot,  he 
sometimes  covers  this  defect  by  the  fervor  he  throws  into  it. 
He  "went  in"  for  passion,  to  use  a  slang  word,  because  there 
is  no  limit  to  the  variety  of  modes  in  which  passion  may  ex- 
press itself,  while  the  task  of  genius  is  to  sift  out  from  these 
various  expressions  the  element  in  each  which  will  appeal  to 
every  one  as  natural.  His  heroes  do  not  stir  the  imagination; 
they  are  magnified  individuals,  exciting  only  a  passing  sym- 
pathy; they  have  no  connection  with  the  wider  interests  of 
life,  and  therefore  stand  for  nothing  but  themselves.  Yet 
the  author  saves  himself  by  means  of  a  ready  wit  and  of 
those  lucky  hits  which  billiard-players  call  "flukes."  He 
is  the  best  man  for  a  flying  shot  at  the  ideas  which  swoop 
down  upon  Paris,  or  which  Paris  starts.  His  teeming  brain 
is  not  his  own,  it  belongs  to  the  period.  He  lives  upon  the 
event  of  the  day,  and,  in  order  to  get  all  he  can  from  it, 
exaggerates  its  bearing.  In  short,  we  miss  the  accent  of 
truth,  his  words  ring  false;  there  is  something  of  the  juggler 
in  him,  as  Count  Felix  said.  One  feels  that  his  pen  has 
dipped  in  the  ink  of  an  actress's  dressing-room. 

In  Nathan  we  find  an  image  of  the  literary  youth  of  the 
day,  with  their  sham  greatness  and  real  poverty;  he  rep- 
resents their  irregular  charm  and  their  terrible  falls,  their 


A    DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  323 

life  of  seething  cataracts,  sudden  reverses,  and  unlooked-for 
triumphs.  He  is  a  true  child  of  this  jealousy-ridden  age,  in 
which  a  thousand  personal  rivalries,  cloaking  themselves 
under  the  name  of  schools,  make  profit  out  of  their  failures 
by  feeding  fat  with  them  a  hydra-headed  anarchy;  an  age 
which  expects  fortune  without  work,  glory  without  talent, 
and  success  without  effort,  but  which,  after  many  a  revolt 
and  skirmish,  is  at  last  brought  by  its  vices  to  swell  the  civil 
list,  in  submission  to  the  powers  that  be.  When  so  many 
young  ambitions  start  on  foot  to  meet  at  the  same-  goal,  there 
must  be  competing  wills,  frightful  destitution,  and  a  relent- 
less struggle.  In  this  merciless  combat  it  is  the  fiercest  or 
the  adroitest  selfishness  which  wins.  The  lesson  is  not  lost 
on  an  admiring  world;  spite  of  bawling,  as  Moliere  would 
say,  it  acquits  and  follows  suit. 

When,  in  his  capacity  of  opponent  to  the  new  dynasty, 
Kaoul  was  introduced  to  Mme.  de  Montcornet's  drawing- 
room  his  specious  greatness  was  at  its  height.  He  was  recog- 
nized as  the  political  critic  of  the  de  Marsays,  the  Eastignacs, 
and  the  la  Eoche-Hugons,  who  constituted  the  party  in 
power.  His  sponsor,  Emile  Blondet,  handicapped  by  his 
fatal  indecision  and  dislike  of  action  where  his  own  affairs 
were  concerned,  stuck  to  his  trade  of  scoffer  and  took  Bides 
with  no  party,  while  on  good  terms  with  all.  He  was  the 
friend  of  Eaoul,  of  Eastignac,  and  of  Montcornet. 

"You  are  a  political  triangle,"  said  de  Marsay,  with  a 
laugh,  when  he  met  him  at  the  Opera;  "that  geometrical 
form  is  the  peculiar  property  of  the  deity,  who  can  afford  to 
be  idle;  but  a  man  who  wants  to  get  on  should  adopt  a  curve, 
which  is  the  shortest  road  in  politics." 

Beheld  from  afar,  Eaoul  Nathan  was  a  resplendent  meteor. 
The  fashion  of  the  day  justified  his  manner  and  appearance. 
His  pose  as  a  Eepublican  gave  him,  for  the  moment,  that 
puritan  ruggedness  assumed  by  champions  of  the  popular 
cause,  men  whom  Nathan  in  his  heart  derided.  This  is  not 
without  attraction  for  women,  who  love  to  perform  prodigies, 
such  as  shattering  rocks,  melting  an  iron  will.  Eaoul's  moral 


324  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

costume,  therefore,  was  in  keeping  with  the  external.  He 
was  bound  to  be,  and  he  was,  for  this  Eve,  listless  in  her 
paradise  of  the  Eue  du  Rocher,  the  insidious  serpent,  bright 
to  the  eye  and  flattering  to  the  ear,  with  magnetic  gaze  and 
graceful  motion,  who  ruined  the  first  woman. 

Marie,  on  seeing  Eaoul,  at  once  felt  that  inward  shock, 
the  violence  of  which  is  almost  terrifying.  This  would-be 
great  man,  by  a  mere  glance,  sent  a  thrill  right  through  to 
her  heart,  causing  a  delicious  flutter  there.  The  regal  man- 
tle which -fame  had  for  the  moment  draped  on  Nathan's 
shoulders  dazzled  this  simple-minded  woman.  When  tea 
came,  Marie  left  the  group  of  chattering  women,  among 
whom  she  had  stood  silent  since  the  appearance  of  this 
wonderful  being — a  fact  which  did  not  escape  her  so-called 
friends.  The  Countess  drew  near  the  ottoman  in  the  centre 
of  the  room  where  Raoul  was  perorating.  She  remained 
standing,  her  arm  linked  in  that  of  Mme.  Octave  de  Camps, 
an  excellent  woman,  who  kept  the  secret  of  the  nervous 
quivering  by  which  Marie  betrayed  her  strong  emotion. 
Despite  the  sweet  magic  distilled  from  the  eye  of  the 
woman  who  loves  or  is  startled  into  self-betrayal,  Raoul 
was  just  then  entirely  occupied  with  a  regular  display  of 
fireworks.  He  way  far  too  busy  letting  off  epigrams  like 
rockets,  winding  and  unwinding  indictments  like  Cather- 
ine-wheels,  and  tracing  blazing  portraits  in  lines  of  fire,  to 
notice  the  naive  admiration  of  a  little  Eve,  lost  in  the 
crowd  of  women  surrounding  him.  The  love  of  novelty 
which  would  bring  Paris  flocking  to  the  Zoological  Gar- 
dens, if  a  unicorn  had  been  brought  there  from  those 
famous  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  virgin  yet  of  European 
tread,  intoxicates  minds  of  a  lower  stamp,  as  much  as  it 
saddens  the  truly  wise.  Raoul  was  enraptured  and  far  too 
much  engrossed  with  women  in  general  to  pay  attention  to 
one  woman  in  particular. 

"Take  care,  dear,  you  had  better  come  away,"  her  fair 
companion,  sweetest  of  women,  whispered  to  Marie. 

The  Countess  turned  to  her  husband  and,  with  one  of 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  325 

those  speaking  glances  which  husbands  are  sometimes  slow 
in  interpreting,  begged  for  his  arm.     Felix  led  her  away. 

"Well,  you  are  in  luck,  my  good  friend,"  said  Mme. 
d'Espard  in  Eaoul's  ear.  "You've  done  execution  in 
more  than  one  quarter  to-night,  and,  best  of  all,  with 
that  charming  Countess  who  has  just  left  us  so  abruptly." 

"Do  you  know  what  the  Marquise  d'Espard  meant?" 
asked  Eaoul  of  Blondet,  repeating  the  great  lady's  remark, 
when  almost  all  the  other  guests  had  departed,  between  one 
and  two  in  the  morning. 

"Why,  yes,  I  have  just  heard  that  the  Comtesse  de 
Vandenesse  has  fallen  wildly  in  love  with  you.  Lucky 
dog!" 

''I  did  not  see  her,"  said  Eaoul. 

"Ah!  but  you  will  see  her,  you  rascal,"  said  Emile 
Blondet,  laughing.  "Lady  Dudley  has  invited  you  to  her 
great  ball  with  the  very  purpose  of  bringing  about  a 
meeting." 

Eaoul  and  Blondet  left  together,  and  joining  Eastignac, 
who  offered  them  a  place  in  his  carriage,  the  three  made 
merry  over  this  conjunction  of  an  eclectic  Tinder-Secretary 
of  State  with  a  fierce  Eepublican  and  a  political  sceptic. 

"Suppose  we  sup  at  the  expense  of  law  and  order?" 
said  Blondet,  who  had  a  fancy  for  reviving  the  old-fash- 
ioned supper. 

Eastignac  took  them  to  Very's,  and  dismissed  his  car- 
riage; the  three  then  sat  down  to  table  and  set  themselves 
to  pull  to  pieces  their  contemporaries  amid  Eabelaisian 
laughter.  During  the  course  of  supper  Eastignac  and 
Blondet  urged  their  counterfeit  opponent  not  to  neglect 
the  magnificent  opportunity  thrown  in  his  way.  The 
story  of  Marie  de  Vandenesse  was  caricatured  by  these 
two  profligates,  who  applied  the  scalpel  of  epigram  and 
the  keen  edge  of  mockery  to  that  transparent  childhood, 
that  happy  marriage.  Blondet  congratulated  Eaoul  on 
having  found  a  woman  who  so  far  had  been  guilty  only 
of  execrable  red-chalk  drawings  and  feeble  water-color 


326  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

landscapes,  of  embroidering  slippers  for  her  husband,  and 
performing  sonatas  with  a  most  lady-like  absence  of  pas- 
sion ;  a  woman  who  had  been  tied  for  eighteen  years  to  her 
mother's  apron-strings,  pickled  in  devotion,  trained  by  Van- 
denesse,  and  cooked  to  a  tarn  by  marriage  for  the  palate  of 
love.  At  the  third  bottle  of  champagne  Kaoul  Nathan  be- 
came more  expansive  than  he  had  ever  shown  himself  before. 

"My  dear  friends,"  he  said,  "you  know  my  relations  with 
Florine,  you  know  my  life,  you  will  not  be  surprised  to  hear 
me  confess  that  I  have  never  yet  seen  the  color  of  a  Coun- 
tess's love.  It  has  often  been  a  humiliating  thought  to  me 
that  only  in  poetry  could  I  find  a  Beatrice,  a  Laura!  A 
pure  and  noble  woman  is  like  a  spotless  conscience,  she 
raises  us  in  our  own  estimation.  Elsewhere  we  may  be 
soiled,  with  her  we  keep  our  honor,  pride,  and  purity. 
Elsewhere  life  is  a  wild  frenzy,  with  her  we  breathe  the 
peace,  the  freshness,  the  bloom  of  the  oasis." 

"Come,  come,  my  good  soul,"  said  Eastignac,  "shift  the 
prayer  of  Moses  on  to  the  high  notes,  as  Paganini  does. ' ' 

Raoul  sat  speechless  with  fixed  and  besotted  eyes.  At 
last  he  opened  his  mouth. 

"This  beast  of  a  'prentice  minister  does  not  under- 
stand me!" 

Thus,  while  the  poor  Eve  of  the  Rue  du  Rocher  went 
to  bed,  swathed  in  shame,  terrified  at  the  delight  which 
had  filled  her  while  listening  to  this  poetic  pretender, 
hovering  between  the  stern  voice  of  gratitude  to  Vande- 
nesse  and  the  flattering  tongue  of  the  serpent,  these  three 
shameless  spirits  trampled  on  the  tender  white  blossoms  of 
her  opening  love.  Ah!  if  women  knew  how  cynical  those 
men  can  be  behind  their  backs,  who  show  themselves  all 
meekness  and  cajolery  when  by  their  side!  if  they  knew 
how  they  mock  their  idols!  Fresh,  lovely,  and  timid 
creature,  whose  charms  lie  at  the  mercy  of  some  graceless 
buffoon!  And  yet  she  triumphs!  The  more  the  veils  are 
rent,  the  clearer  her  beauty  shines. 

Marie  at  this  moment  was  comparing  Raoul  and  Felix, 


A    DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  327 

all-ignorant  of  the  danger  to  her  heart  in  such  a  process. 
No  better  contrast  could  be  found  to  the  robust  and  un- 
conventional Eaoul  than  Felix  de  Vandenesse,  with  his 
clothes  fitting  like  a  glove,  the  finish  of  a  fine  lady  in  his 
person,  his  charming  natural  disinvoltura,  combined  with  a 
touch  of  English  refinement,  picked  up  from  Lady  Dudley. 
A  contrast  like  this  pleases  the  fancy  of  a  woman,  ever 
ready  to  fly  from  one  extreme  to  another.  The  Countess 
was  too  well-principled  and  pious  not  to  forbid  her  thoughts 
dwelling  on  Raoul,  and  next  day,  in  the  heart  of  her  para- 
dise, she  took  herself  to  task  for  base  ingratitude. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Eaoul  Nathan?"  she  asked  her 
husband  during  lunch. 

"He  is  a  charlatan,"  replied  the  Count;  "one  of  those 
volcanoes  which  a  sprinkling  of  gold  dust  will  keep  tran- 
quil. The  Comtesse  de  Montcornet  ought  not  to  have  had 
him  at  her  house." 

This  reply  was  the  more  galling  to  Marie  because  Felix, 
who  knew  the  literary  world  well,  supported  his  verdict 
with  proofs  drawn  from  the  life  of  Raoul — a  life  of  shifts, 
in  which  Florine,  a  well-known  actress,  played  a  large 
part. 

"Granting  the  man  has  genius,"  he  concluded,  "he  is 
without  the  patience  and  persistency  which  make  genius  a 
thing  apart  and  sacred.  He  tries  to  impress  people  by  as 
suming  a  position  which  he  cannot  live  up  to.  That  is  not 
the  behavior  of  really  able  men  and  students;  if  they  are 
honorable  men  they  stick  to  their  own  line,  and  don't  try 
to  hide  their  rags  under  frippery." 

A  woman's  thought  has  marvellous  elasticity;  it  may 
sink  under  a  blow,  to  all  appearance  crushed,  but  in  a 
given  time  it  is  up  again,  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. 

"Felix  must  be  right,"  was  the  first  thought  of  the 
Countess. 

Three  days  later,  however,  her  mind  travelled  back  to 
the  tempter,  allured  by  that  sweet  yet  ruthless  emotion 


828  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

which  it  was  the  mistake  of  Yandenesse  not  to  have 
aroused.  The  Count  and  Countess  went  to  Lady  Dud- 
ley's great  ball,  where  de  Marsay  made  his  last  appearance 
in  society.  Two  months  later  he  died,  leaving  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  statesman  so  profound  that,  as  Blondet  said,  he 
was  unfathomable.  Here  Vandenesse  and  his  wife  again 
met  Raoul  Nathan,  amid  a  concourse  of  people  made  re- 
markable by  the  number  of  actors  in  the  political  drama 
whom,  to  their  mutual  surprise,  it  brought  together. 

It  was  one  of  the  chief  social  functions  in  the  great 
world.  The  reception-rooms  offered  a  magic  picture  to  the 
eye.  Flowers,  diamonds,  shining  hair,  the  plunder  of 
countless  jewel-cases,  every  art  of  the  toilet — all  con- 
tributed to  the  effect.  The  room  might  be  compared  to 
one  of  those  show  hothouses  where  wealthy  amateurs  col- 
lect the  most  marvellous  varieties.  There  was  the  same 
brilliancy,  the  same  delicacy  of  texture.  It  seemed  as 
though  the  art  of  man  would  compete  also  with  the  animal 
world.  On  all  sides  fluttered  gauze,  white  or  painted  like 
the  wings  of  prettiest  dragon-fly,  cre'pe,  lace,  blonde,  tulle, 
pucked,  puffed,  or  notched,  vying  in  eccentricity  of  form 
with  the  freaks  of  nature  in  the  insect  tribe.  There  were 
spider's  threads  in  gold  or  silver,  clouds  of  silk,  flowers 
which  some  fairy  might  have  woven  or  imprisoned  spirit 
breathed  into  life;  feathers,  whose  rich  tints  told  of  a 
tropical  sun,  drooping  willow-like  over  haughty  heads, 
ropes  of  pearls,  drapery  in  broad  folds,  ribbed,  or  slashed, 
as  though  the  genius  of  arabesque  had  presided  over  French 
millinery. 

This  splendor  harmonized  with  the  beauties  gathered  to- 
gether as  though  to  form  a  "keepsake."  The  eye  roamed 
over  a  wealth  of  fair  shoulders  in  every  tone  of  white  that 
man  could  conceive — some  amber-tinted,  others  glistening 
like  some  glazed  surface  or  glossy  as  satin,  others,  again, 
of  a  rich  lustreless  color  which  the  brush  of  Rubens  might 
have  mixed.  Then  the  eyes,  sparkling  like  onyx  stones  or 
turquoises,  with  their  dark  velvet  edging  or  fair  fringes; 


A    DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  329 

and  profiles  of  every  contour,  recalling  the  noblest  types  of 
different  lands.  There  were  brows  lofty  with  pride;  rounded 
brows,  index  of  thought  within;  level  brows,  the  seat  of  an 
indomitable  will.  Lastly — most  bewitching  of  all  in  a  scene 
of  such  studied  splendor — necks  and  bosoms  in  the  rich  vo- 
luptuous folds  adored  by  George  IV.,  or  with  the  more  deli- 
cate modelling  which  found  favor  in  the  eighteenth  century 
and  at  the  court  of  Louis  XY. ;  but  all,  whatever  the  type, 
frankly  exhibited,  either  without  drapery  or  through  the 
dainty  plaited  tuckers  of  Eafael's  portraits,  supreme  tri- 
umph of  his  laborious  pupils.  Prettiest  of  feet,  itching  for 
the  dance,  figures  yielding  softly  to  the  embrace  of  the  waltz, 
roused  the  most  apathetic  to  attention;  murmurings  of  gentle 
voices,  rustling  dresses,  whispering  partners,  vibrations  of  the 
dance,  made  a  fantastic  burden  to  the  music. 

A  fairy's  wand  might  have  called  forth  this  witchery,  be- 
wildering to  the  senses,  the  harmony  of  scents,  the  rainbow 
tints  flashing  in  the  crystal  chandeliers,  the  blaze  of  the 
candles,  the  mirrors  which  repeated  the  scene  on  every 
side.  The  groups  of  lovely  women  in  lovely  attire  stood 
out  against  a  dark  background  of  men,  where  might  be 
observed  the  delicate,  regular  features  of  the  aristocracy, 
the  tawny  mustache  of  the  sedate  Englishman,  the  gay, 
smiling  countenance  of  the  French  noble.  Every  Euro- 
pean order  glittered  in  the  room,  some  hanging  from  a 
collar  on  the  breast,  others  dangling  by  the  side. 

To  a  watchful  observer  the  scene  presented  more  than 
this  gayly  decorated  surface.  It  had  a  soul;  it  lived,  it 
thought,  it  felt,  it  found  expression  in  the  hidden  passions 
which  now  and  again  forced  their  way  to  the  surface.  Now 
it  would  be  an  interchange  of  malicious  glances;  now  some 
fair  young  girl,  carried  away  by  excitement  and  novelty, 
would  betray  a  touch  of  passion;  jealous  women  talked 
scandal  behind  their  fans  and  paid  each  other  extravagant 
compliments.  Society,  decked  out,  curled,  and  perfumed, 
abandoned  itself  to  that  frenzy  of  the  fe^te  which  goes  to  the 
head  like  the  fumes  of  wine.  From  every  brow,  as  from 


330  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

every  heart,  seemed  to  emanate  sensations  and  thoughts, 
which,  forming  together  one  potent  influence,  inflamed  the 
most  cold-blooded. 

It  was  the  most  exciting  moment  of  this  entrancing  even- 
ing. In  a  corner  of  the  gilded  drawing-room,  where  a  few 
bankers,  ambassadors,  and  retired  ministers,  together  with 
that  old  reprobate,  Lord  Dudley  (an  unexpected  arrival), 
were  seated  at  play,  Mme.  Felix  de  Vandenesse  found  her- 
self unable  to  resist  the  impulse  to  enter  into  conversation 
with  Nathan.  She,  too,  may  have  been  yielding  to  that 
ballroom  intoxication  which  has  wrung  many  a  confession 
from  the  lips  of  the  most  coy. 

The  sight  of  this  splendid  pageant  of  a  world  to  which 
he  was  still  a  stranger  stung  Nathan  to  the  heart  with  re- 
doubled ambition.  He  looked  at  Rastignac,  whose  brother, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-seven,  had  just  been  made  a  Bishop, 
and  whose  brother-in-law,  Martial  de  la  Roche-Hugon,  held 
office,  while  he  himself  was  an  Under- Secretary  of  State, 
and  about  to  marry,  as  rumor  said,  the  only  daughter  of 
the  Baron  de  Nucingen.  He  saw  among  the  members 
of  the  diplomatic  body  an  obscure  writer  who  used  to 
translate  foreign  newspapers  for  a  journal  that  passed  over 
to  the  reigning  dynasty  after  1830;  he  saw  leader-writers 
members  of  the  Council  and  professors  peers  of  France. 
And  he  perceived,  with  bitterness,  that  he  had  taken  the 
wrong  road  in  preaching  the  overthrow  of  an  aristocracy 
which  counted  among  its  ornaments  the  true  nobility  of 
fortunate  talent  and  successful  scheming.  Blondet,  though 
still  a  mere  journalistic  hack,  was  made  much  of  in  society, 
and  had  it  yet  in  his  power  to  strike  the  road  to  fortune  by 
means  of  his  intimacy  with  Mme.  de  Montcornet.  Blondet, 
therefore,  with  all  his  ill-luck,  was  a  striking  example  in 
Nathan's  eyes  of  the  importance  of  having  friends  in  high 
places.  In  the  depths  of  his  heart  he  resolved  upon  fol- 
lowing the  example  of  men  like  de  Marsay,  Rastignac. 
Blondet,  and  Talleyrand,  the  leader  of  the  sect.  He  would 
throw  conviction  to  the  winds,  paying  allegiance  only  to 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  331 

accomplished  facts,  which  he  would  wrest  to  his  own  ad- 
vantage; no  system  should  be  to  him  more  than  an  instru- 
ment; and  on  no  account  would  he  upset  the  balance  of  a 
society  so  admirably  constructed,  so  decorative,  and  so  con- 
sonant with  nature. 

"My  future,"  he  said  to  himself,  "is  in  the  hands  of  a 
woman  belonging  to  the  great  world. ' ' 

Full  of  this  thought,  the  outcome  of  a  frantic  cupidity, 
Nathan  pounced  upon  the  Comtesse  de  Vandenesse  like  a 
hawk  upon  its  prey.  She  was  looking  charming  in  a  head- 
dress of  marabout  feathers,  which  produced  the  delicious 
melting  effect  of  Lawrence's  portraits,  well  suited  to  her 
gentle  character.  The  fervid  rhapsodies  of  the  poet, 
crazed  by  ambition,  carried  the  sweet  creature  quite  off 
her  feet.  Lady  Dudley,  whose  eye  was  everywhere,  se- 
cured the  tete-d-tete  by  handing  over  the  Comte  de  Vande- 
nesse  to  Mme.  de  Manerville.  It  was  the  first  time  the 
parted  lovers  had  spoken  face  to  face  since  their  rupture. 
The  woman,  strong  in  the  habit  of  ascendency,  caught 
Felix  in  the  toils  of  a  coquettish  controversy,  with  plenty 
of  blushing  confidences,  regrets  deftly  cast  like  flowers  at 
his  feet,  and  recriminations,  where  self-defence  was  in- 
tended to  stimulate  reproach. 

While  her  husband's  former  mistress  was  raking  among 
the  ashes  of  dead  joys  to  find  some  spark  of  life,  Mme. 
Felix  de  Vandenesse  experienced  those  violent  heart-throbs 
which  assail  a  woman  with  the  certainty  of  going  astray  and 
treading  forbidden  paths.  These  emotions  are  not  without 
fascination,  and  rouse  many  dormant  faculties.  Now,  as  in 
the  days  of  Blue  Beard,  all  women  love  to  use  the  blood- 
stained key,  that  splendid  mythological  symbol  which  is 
one  of  Perrault's  glories. 

The  dramatist,  who  knew  his  Shakespeare,  unfolded  the 
tale  of  his  hardships,  described  his  struggle  with  men  and 
things,  opened  up  glimpses  of  his  unstable  success,  his  po- 
litical genius  wasting  in  obscurity,  his  life  unblessed  by  any 
generous  affection.  Without  a  word  directly  to  that  effect, 


332  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

he  conveyed  to  this  gracious  lady  the  suggestion  that  she 
might  play  for  him  the  noble  part  of  Eebecca  in  "Ivan- 
hoe,"  might  love  and  shelter  him.  Not  a  syllable  over- 
stepped the  pure  regions  of  sentiment.  The  blue  of  the 
forget-me-not,  the  white  of  the  lily,  are  not  more  pure  than 
were  his  flowers  of  rhetoric  and  the  things  signified  by 
them;  the  radiance  of  a  seraph  lighted  the  brow  of  this 
artist,  who  might  yet  utilize  his  discourse  with  a  publisher. 
He  acquitted  himself  well  of  the  serpent's  part,  and  flashed 
before  the  eyes  of  the  Countess  the  tempting  colors  of  the 
fatal  fruit.  Marie  left  the  ball  consumed  by  remorse,  which 
was  akin  to  hope,  thrilled  by  compliments  flattering  to  her 
vanity,  and  agitated  to  the  remotest  corner  of  her  heart. 
Her  very  goodness  was  her  snare;  she  could  not  resist  her 
own  pity  for  the  unfortunate. 

Whether  Mme.  de  Manerville  brought  Vandenesse  to 
the  room  where  his  wife  was  talking  with  Nathan,  whether 
he  came  there  of  his  own  accord,  or  whether  the  conversa- 
tion had  roused  in  him  a  slumbering  pain,  the  fact  remains, 
whatever  the  cause,  that,  when  his  wife  came  to  ask  for  his 
arm,  she  found  him  gloomy  and  abstracted.  The  Countess 
was  afraid  she  had  been  seen.  As  soon  as  she  was  alone 
with  Felix  in  the  carriage,  she  threw  him  a  smile  full  of 
meaning,  and  began:  "Was  not  that  Mme.  de  Manerville 
with  whom  you  were  talking,  dear?" 

Felix  had  not  yet  got  clear  of  ,the  thorny  ground,  through 
which  his  wife's  neat  little  attack  marched  him,  when  the 
carriage  stopped  at  their  door.  It  was  the  first  stratagem 
prompted  by  love.  Marie  was  delighted  to  have  thus  got 
the  better  of  a  man  whom  till  then  she  had  considered 
so  superior.  She  tasted  for  the  first  time  the  joy  of  vic- 
tory at  a  critical  moment. 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE 

CHAPTER  V 

FLORINE 

/N  A  PASSAGE  between  the  Eue  Basse-du-Rempart 
and  the  Rue  Neuve-des-Mathurins,  Raoul  had  one  or 
two  bare,  cold  rooms  on  the  third  floor  of  a  thin, 
ugly  house.  This  was  his  abode  for  the  general  public, 
for  literary  novices,  creditors,  intruders,  and  the  whole 
race  of  bores  who  were  not  allowed  to  cross  the  threshold 
of  private  life.  His  real  home,  which  was  the  stage  of  his 
wider  life  and  public  appearances,  he  made  with  Florine,  a 
second-rate  actress  who,  ten  years  before,  had  been  raised 
to  the  rank  of  a  great  dramatic  artist  by  the  combined  ef- 
forts of  Nathan's  friends,  the  newspaper  critics,  and  a  few 
literary  men. 

For  ten  years  Raoul  had  been  so  closely  attached  to  this 
woman  that  he  spent  half  his  life  in  her  house,  taking  his 
meals  there  whenever  he  had  no  engagements  outside  nor 
friends  to  entertain.  Florine,  to  a  finished  depravity, 
added  a  very  pretty  wit,  which  constant  intercourse  with 
artists  and  daily  practice  had  developed  and  sharpened. 
Wit  is  generally  supposed  to  be  a  rare  quality  among  ac- 
tors. It  seems  an  easy  inference  that  those  who  spend 
their  lives  in  bringing  the  outside  to  perfection  should 
have  little  left  with  which  to  furnish  the  interior.  But 
any  one  who  considers  the  small  number  of  actors  and 
actresses  in  a  century,  compared  with  the  quantity  of 
dramatic  authors  and  attractive  women  produced  by  the 
same  population,  will  see  reason  to  dispute  this  notion. 
It  rests,  in  fact,  on  the  common  assumption  that  personal 
feeling  must  disappear  in  the  imitative  expression  of  pas- 
sion, whereas  the  real  fact  is  that  intelligence,  memory, 
and  imagination  are  the  only  powers  employed  in  such 


BALZAC'S    WORKS 

imitation.  Great  artists  are  those  who,  according  to  Na- 
poleon's definition,  can  intercept  at  will  the  communica- 
tion established  by  nature  between  sensation  and  thought. 
Moliere  and  Talma  loved  more  passionately  in  their  old  age 
than  is  usual  with  ordinary  mortals. 

Florine's  position  forced  her  to  listen  to  the  talk  of  alert 
and  calculating  journalists  and  to  the  prophecies  of  garru- 
lous literary  men,  while  keeping  an  eye  on  certain  politi- 
cians who  used  her  house  as  a  means  of  profiting  by  the 
sallies  of  her  guests.  The  mixture  of  angel  and  demon 
which  she  embodied  made  her  a  fitting  hostess  for  these 
profligates,  who  revelled  in  her  impudence  and  found  un- 
failing amusement  in  the  perversity  of  her  mind  and  heart. 

Her  house,  enriched  with  offerings  from  admirers,  dis- 
played in  its  exnggerated  magnificence  an  entire  regard- 
lessness  of  cost.  Women  of  this  type  set  a  purely  arbi- 
trary value  on  their  possessions;  in  a  fit  of  temper  they 
will  smash  a  fan  or  a  scent-bottle  worthy  of  a  queen,  and 
they  will  be  inconsolable  if  anything  happens  to  a  ten- 
franc  basin  which  their  lap-dogs  drink  out  of.  The  din- 
ing-room, crowded  with  rare  and  costly  gifts,  may  serve  as 
a  specimen  of  the  regal  and  insolent  profusion  of  the  es- 
tablishment. 

The  whole  room,  including  the  ceiling,  was  covered  with 
carved  oak,  left  unstained,  and  set  off  with  lines  of  dull  gold. 
In  the  panels,  encircled  by  groups  of  children  playing  with 
chimeras,  were  placed  the  lights,  which  illuminated  here  a 
rough  sketch  by  Decamps;  there  a  plaster  angel  holding  a 
basin  of  holy  water,  a  present  from  Antonin  Moine;  further 
on  a  dainty  picture  of  Eugene  Deveria;  the  sombre  figure  of 
some  Spanish  alchemist  by  Louis  Boulanger;  an  autograph 
letter  from  Lord  Byron  to  Caroline  in  an  ebony  frame,  carved 
by  Elschoet,  with  a  letter  of  Napoleon  to  Josephine  to  match 
it.  The  things  were  arranged  without  any  view  to  symmetry, 
and  yet  with  a  sort  of  unstudied  art;  the  whole  effect  took 
one,  as  it  were,  by  storm.  There  was  a  union  of  careless- 
ness and  desire  to  please,  such  as  can  only  be  found  in  the 


A   DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  335 

homes  of  artists.  The  exquisitely-carved  mantel-piece  was 
bare  except  for  a  whimsical  Florentine  statue  in  ivory,  at- 
tributed to  Michelangelo,  representing  a  Pan  discovering  a 
woman  disguised  as  a  young  herd,  the  original  of  which  is  at 
the  Treasury  in  Vienna.  On  either  side  of  this  hung  an  iron 
candelabrum,  the  work  of  some  Eenaissance  chisel.  A  Boule 
timepiece  on  a  tortoise-shell  bracket,  lacquered  with  copper 
arabesques,  glittered  in  the  middle  of  a  panel  between  two 
statuettes,  survivals  from  some  ruined  abbey.  In  the  cor- 
ners of  the  room  on  pedestals  stood  gorgeously  resplendent 
lamps — the  fee  paid  by  some  maker  to  Florine  for  trumpet- 
ing his  wares  among  her  friends,  who  were  assured  that 
Japanese  pots,  with  rich  fittings,  made  the  only  possible 
stand  for  lamps.  On  a  marvellous  whatnot  lay  a  display 
of  silver,  well-earned  trophy  of  a  combat  in  which  some 
English  lord  had  been  forced  to  acknowledge  the  superior- 
ity of  the  French  nation.  Next  came  porcelain  reliefs.  The 
whole  room  displayed  the  charming  profusion  of  an  artist 
whose  furniture  represents  his  capital. 

The  bedroom,  in  violet,  was  a  young  ballet-girl's  dream: 
velvet  curtains,  lined  with  silk,  were  draped  over  inner  folds 
of  tulle;  the  ceiling  was  in  white  cashmere  relieved  with  vio- 
let silk ;  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  lay  an  ermine  rug ;  within  the 
bed-curtains,  which  fell  in  the  form  of  an  inverted  lily,  hung 
a  lantern  by  which  to  read  the  proofs  of  next  day's  papers. 
A  yellow  drawing-room,  enriched  with  ornaments  the  color 
of  Florentine  bronze,  Carried  out  the  same  impression  of 
magnificence,  but  a  detailed  description  would  make  these 
pages  too  much  of  a  broker's  inventory.  To  find  anything 
comparable  to  these  treasures,  it  would  be  necessary  to  visit 
the  Rothschilds'  house  close  by. 

Sophie  Grignoult,  who,  following  the  usual  custom  of 
taking  a  stage  name,  was  known  as  Florine,  had  made  her 
debut,  beautiful  as  she  was,  in  a  subordinate  capacity.  Her 
triumph  and  her  wealth  she  owed  to  Raoul  Nathan.  The 
association  of  these  two  careers,  common  enough  in  the  dra- 
matic and  literary  world,  did  not  injure  Raoul,  who,  in  his 


336  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

character  as  a  man  of  high  pretensions,  respected  the  pro- 
prieties. Nevertheless,  Florine's  fortune  was  far  from  as- 
sured. Her  professional  income,  arising  from  her  salary  and 
what  she  could  earn  in  her  holidays,  barely  sufficed  for  dress 
and  housekeeping.  Nathan  helped  her  with  contributions 
levied  on  new  ventures  in  trade,  and  was  always  chivalrous 
and  ready  to  act  as  her  protector;  but  the  support  he  gave 
was  neither  regular  nor  solid.  This  instability,  this  hand- 
to-mouth  life,  had  no  terrors  for  Florine.  She  believed  in 
her  talent  and  her  beauty;  and  this  robust  faith  had  some- 
thing comic  in  it  for  those  who  heard  her,  in  answer  to 
remonstrances,  mortgaging  her  future  on  such  security. 

ltl  can  live  on  my  means  whenever  I  like,"  she  would 
say.     "I  have  fifty  francs  in  the  funds  now." 

No  one  could  understand  how,  with  her  beauty,  Florine 
had  remained  seven  years  in  obscurity;  but  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  she  was  enrolled  as  a  supernumerary  at  the  age  of  thir- 
teen, and  made  her  de*but  two  years  later  in  a  humble  theatre 
on  the  boulevards.  At  fifteen,  beauty  and  talent  do  not 
exist;  there  can  only  be  promise  of  the  coming  woman.  She 
was  now  twenty-eight,  an  age  which  with  French  women  is 
the  culminating  point  of  their  beauty.  Painters  admired 
most  of  all  her  shoulders,  glossy  white,  with  olive  tints  about 
the  back  of  the  neck,  but  firm  and  polished,  reflecting  the 
light  like  watered  silk.  When  she  turned  her  head,  the  neck 
made  magnificent  curves  in  which  sculptors  delighted.  On 
this  neck  rose  the  small,  imperious  head  of  a  Eoman  empress, 
graceful  and  finely  molded,  round  and  self-assertive,  like 
that  of  Poppaea.  The  features  were  correct,  yet  expressive, 
and  the  unlined  forehead  was  that  of  an  easy-going  woman 
who  takes  all  trouble  lightly,  yet  can  be  obstinate  as  a  mule 
on  occasion  and  deaf  to  all  reason.  This  forehead,  with  its 
pure  unbroken  sweep,  gave  value  to  the  lovely  flaxen  hair, 
generally  raised  in  front,  in  Roman  fashion,  in  two  equal 
masses  and  twisted  into  a  high  knot  at  the  back,  so  as  to 
prolong  the  curve  of  the  neck  and  bring  out  its  whiteness. 
Dark,  delicate  eyebrows,  such  as  a  Chinese  artist  pencils, 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  337 

framed  the  heavy  lids,  covered  with  a  network  of  tiny  pink 

veins.  The  pupils,  sparkling  with  fire  but  spotted  with 
patches  of  brown,  gave  to  her  look  the  fierce  fixity  of  a  wild 
beast,  emblematic  of  the  courtesan's  cold  heartlessness.  The 
lovely  gazelle-like  iris  was  a  beautiful  gray,  and  fringed  with 
black  lashes,  a  bewitching  contrast  which  brought  out  yet 
more  strikingly  the  expression  of  calm  and  expectant  desire. 
Darker  tints  encircled  the  eyes ;  but  it  was  the  artistic  finish 
with  which  she  used  them  that  was  most  remarkable.  Those 
darting,  sidelong  glances  which  nothing  escaped,  the  upward 
gaze  of  her  dreamy  pose,  the  way  she  had  of  keeping  the  iris 
fixed,  while  charging  it  with  the  most  intense  passion  and 
without  moving  the  head  or  stirring  a  muscle  of  the  face — 
a  trick,  this,  learned  on  the  stage — the  keen  sweep  which 
would  embrace  a  whole  room  to  find  out  the  man  she  wanted 
— these  were  the  arts  which  made  of  her  eyes  the  most  ter- 
rible, the  sweetest,  the  strangest  in  the  world. 

Eouge  had  spoiled  the  delicate  transparency  of  her  soft 
cheeks.  But  if  it  was  beyond  her  power  to  blush  or  grow 
pale,  she  had  a  slender  nose,  indented  by  pink,  quivering 
nostrils,  which  seemed  to  breathe  the  sarcasm  and  mockery 
of  Moliere's  waiting-maids.  Her  mouth,  sensual  and  luxu- 
rious, lending  itself  to  irony  as  readily  as  to  love,  owed  much 
of  its  beauty  to  the  finely-cut  edges  of  the  little  groove  join- 
ing the  upper  lip  to  the  nose.  Her  white,  rather  fleshy,  chin 
portended  storms  in  love.  Her  hands  and  arms  might  have 
been  an  empress's.  But  the  feet  were  short  and  thick, 
ineradicable  sign  of  low  birth.  Never  had  heritage  wrought 
more  woe.  In  her  efforts  to  change  it,  Florine  had  stopped 
short  only  at  amputation.  But  her  feet  were  obstinate,  like 
the  Bretons  from  whom  she  sprang,  and  refused  to  yield  to 
any  science  or  manipulation.  Florine  therefore  wore  long 
boots,  stuffed  with  cotton,  to  give  her  an  arched  instep.  She 
was  of  medium  height,  and  threatened  with  corpulence,  but 
her  figure  still  kept  its  curves  and  precision. 

Morally,  she  was  past  mistress  in  all  the  airs  and  graces, 
tantrums,  quips,  and  caresses  of  her  trade;  but  she  gave  them 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC — 15 


338  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

a  special  character  by  affecting  childishness  and  edging  in  a 
sly  thrust  under  cover  of  innocent  laughter.  With  all  her 
apparent  ignorance  and  giddiness,  she  was  at  home  in  the 
mysteries  of  discount  and  commercial  law.  She  had  waded 
through  so  many  bad  times  to  reach  her  day  of  precarious 
triumph!  She  had  descended,  story  by  story,  to  the  ground 
floor,  through  such  a  coil  of  intrigue !  She  knew  life  under 
so  many  forms;  from  that  which  dines  off  bread  and  cheese 
to  that  which  toys  listlessly  with  apricot  fritters;  from  that 
which  does  its  cooking  and  washing  in  the  corner  of  a  garret 
with  an  earthen  stove  to  that  which  summons  its  vassal  host 
of  big-paunched  chefs  and  impudent  scullions.  She  had  in- 
dulged in  credit  without  killing  it.  She  knew  everything  of 
which  good  women  are  ignorant,  and  could  speak  all  lan- 
guages. A  child  of  the  people  by  her  origin,  the  refinement 
of  her  beauty  allied  her  to  the  upper  classes.  She  was  hard 
to  overreach  and  impossible  to  mystify;  for,  like  spies,  bar- 
risters, and  those  who  have  grown  old  in  statecraft,  she  kept 
an  open  mind  for  every  possibility.  She  knew  how  to  deal 
with  tradespeople  and  their  little  tricks,  and  could  quote 
prices  with  an  auctioneer.  Lying  back,  like  some  fair  young 
bride,  on  her  couch,  with  the  part  she  was  learning  in  her 
hand,  she  might  have  passed  for  a  guileless  and  ignorant  girl 
of  sixteen,  protected  only  by  her  innocence.  But  let  some 
importunate  creditor  arrive,  and  she  was  on  her  feet  like  a 
startled  fawn,  a  good  round  oath  upon  her  lips. 

"My  good  fellow,"  she  would  address  him,  "your  inso- 
lence is  really  too  high  an  interest  on  my  debt.  I  am  tired 
of  the  sight  of  you;  go  and  send  the  bailiffs.  Eather  them 
than  your  imbecile  face." 

Florine  gave  charming  dinners,  concerts,  and  crowded 
receptions,  where  the  play  was  very  high.  Her  women 
friends  were  all  beautiful.  Never  had  an  old  woman  been 
seen  at  her  parties;  she  was  entirely  free  from  jealousy, 
which  seemed  to  her  a  confession  of  weakness.  Among  her 
old  acquaintances  were  Coralie  and  la  Torpille ;  among  those 
of  the  day,  the  Tullias,  Euphrasie,  the  Aquilinas,  Mme.  du 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  339 

Val-Noble,  Mariette; — those  women  who  float  through  Paris 
like  threads  of  gossamer  in  the  air,  no  one  knowing  whence 
they  come  or  whither  they  go;  queens  to-day,  to-morrow 
drudges.  Her  rivals,  too,  came,  actresses  and  singers,  the 
whole  company,  in  short,  of  that  unique  feminine  world,  so 
kindly  and  gracious  in  its  recklessness,  whose  Bohemian  life 
carries  away  with  its  dash,  its  spirit,  its  scorn  of  to-morrow, 
the  men  who  join  the  frenzied  dance.  Though  in  Florine's 
house  Bohemianism  flourished  unchecked  to  a  chorus  of  gay 
artists,  the  mistress  had  all  her  wits  about  her,  and  could 
use  them  as  not  one  of  her  guests.  Secret  saturnalia  of  lit- 
erature and  art  were  held  there  side  by  side  with  politics  and 
finance.  There  passion  reigned  supreme;  there  temper  and 
the  whim  of  the  moment  received  the  reverence  which  a 
simple  society  pays  to  honor  and  virtue.  There  might  be 
seen  Blondet,  Finot,  Etienne  Lousteau,  her  seventh  lover 
who  believed  himself  to  be  the  first,  Felicien  Yernou,  the 
journalist,  Couture,  Bixiou,  Rastignac  formerly,  Claude 
Vignon  the  critic,  Nucingen  the  banker,  du  Tillet,  Conti 
the  composer;  in  a  word,  the  whole  diabolic  legion  of  fero- 
cious egotists  in  every  walk  of  life.  There  also  came  the 
friends  of  the  singers,  dancers,  and  actresses  whom  Florine 
knew. 

Every  member  of  this  society  hated  or  loved  every  other 
member  according  to  circumstances.  This  house  of  call, 
open  to  celebrities  of  every  kind,  was  a  sort  of  brothel  of  wit, 
a  galleys  of  the  mind.  Not  a  guest  there  but  had  filched  his 
fortune  within  the  four  corners  of  the  law,  had  worked 
through  ten  years  of  squalor,  had  strangled  two  or  three 
love  affairs,  and  had  made  his  mark,  whether  by  a  book 
or  a  waistcoat,  a  drama  or  a  carriage  and  pair.  Their  time 
was  spent  in  hatching  mischief,  in  exploring  roads  to  wealth, 
in  ridiculing  popular  outbreaks,  which  they  had  incited  the 
day  before,  and  in  studying  the  fluctuations  of  the  money 
market.  Each  man,  as  he  left  the  house,  donned  again  the 
livery  of  his  beliefs,  which  he  had  cast  aside  on  entering  in 
order  to  abuse  at  his  ease  his  own  party,  and  admire  the 


340  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

strategy  and  skill  of  its  opponents,  to  put  in  plain  words 
thoughts  which  men  keep  to  themselves,  to  practice,  in  fine, 
that  license  of  speech  which  goes  with  license  in  action. 
Paris  is  the  one  place  in  the  world  where  houses  of  this 
eclectic  sort  exist,  in  which  every  taste,  every  vice,  every 
opinion,  finds  a  welcome,  so  long  as  it  comes  in  decent 
garb. 

It  remains  to  be  said  that  Florine  is  still  a  second-rate 
actress.  Further,  her  life  is  neither  an  idle  nor  an  enviable 
one.  Many  people,  deluded  by  the  splendid  vantage-ground 
which  the  theatre  gives  to  a  woman,  imagine  her  to  live  in 
a  perpetual  carnival.  How  many  a  poor  girl,  buried  in  some 
porter's  lodge  or  under  an  attic  roof,  dreams  on  her  return 
from  the  theatre  of  pearls  and  diamonds,  of  dresses  decked 
with  gold  and  rich  sashes,  and  pictures  herself,  the  glitter 
of  the  footlights  on  her  hair,  applauded,  purchased,  wor- 
shipped, carried  off.  And  not  one  of  them  knows  the  facts 
of  that  treadmill  existence,  how  an  actress  is  forced  to  attend 
rehearsals  under  penalty  of  a  fine,  to  read  plays,  and  per- 
petually study  new  parts,  at  a  time  when  two  or  three  hun- 
dred pieces  a  year  are  played  in  Paris.  In  the  course  of  each 
performance,  Florine  changes  her  dress  two  or  three  times, 
and  often  she  returns  to  her  dressing-room  half-dead  with 
exhaustion.  Then  she  has  to  get  rid  of  the  red  or  white 
paint  with  the  aid  of  plentiful  Cosmetics,  and  dust  the  powder 
out  of  her  hair,  if  she  has  been  playing  an  eighteenth-century 
part.  Barely  has  she  time  to  dine.  When  she  is  playing, 
an  actress  can  neither  lace  her  stays,  nor  eat,  nor  talk.  For 
supper  again  Florine  has  no  time.  On  returning  from  a  per- 
formance, which  nowadays  is  not  over  till  past  midnight,  she 
has  her  toilet  for  the  night  to  make  and  orders  to  give. 
After  going  to  bed  at  one  or  two  in  the  morning,  she  has  to 
be  up  in  time  to  revise  her  parts,  to  order  her  dresses,  to  ex- 
plain them  and  try  them  on ;  then  lunch,  read  her  love-let- 
ters, reply  to  them,  transact  business  with  her  hired  applaud- 
ers,  so  that  she  may  be  properly  greeted  on  entering  and 
leaving. the  stage,  and,  while  paying  the  bill  for  her  triumphs 


A    DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  341 

of  the  past  month,  order  wholesale  those  of  the  present.  In 
the  days  of  Saint  Genest,  a  canonized  actor,  who  neglected 
no  means  of  grace  and  wore  a  hair-shirt,  the  stage,  we  must 
suppose,  did  not  demand  this  relentless  activity.  Often  Flo- 
rine  is  forced  to  feign  an  illness  if  she  wants  to  go  into  the 
country  and  pick  flowers  like  an  ordinary  mortal. 

Yet  these  purely  mechanical  occupations  are  nothing  in 
comparison  with  the  mental  worries,  arising  from  intrigues 
to  be  conducted,  annoyances  to  vanity,  preferences  shown  by 
authors,  competition  for  parts,  with  its  triumphs  and  dis- 
appointments, unreasonable  actors,  ill-natured  rivals,  and  the 
importunities  of  managers  and  critics,  all  of  which  demand 
another  twenty-four  hours  in  the  day. 

And,  lastly,  there  is  the  art  itself  and  all  the  difficulties 
it  involves — the  interpretation  of  passion,  details  of  mimicry, 
and  stage  effects,  with  thousands  of  opera-glasses  ready  to 
pounce  on  the  slightest  flaw  in  the  most  brilliant  present- 
ment. These  are  the  things  which  wore  away  the  life  and 
energy  of  Talma,  Lekain,  Baron,  Contat,  Clairon,  Champ- 
mesle.  In  the  pandemonium  of  the  greenroom  self-love  is 
sexless;  the  successful  artist,  man  or  woman,  has  all  other 
men  and  women  for  enemies. 

As  to  profits,  however  handsome  Florine's  salaries  may 
be,  they  do  not  cover  the  cost  of  the  stage  finery,  which — not 
to  speak  of  costumes — demands  an  enormous  expenditure  in 
long  gloves  and  shoes,  and  does  not  do  away  with  the  neces- 
sity for  evening  and  visiting  dresses.  One-third  of  such  a 
life  is  spent  in  begging  favors,  another  in  making  sure  the 
ground  already  won,  and  the  remainder  in  repelling  attacks; 
but  all  alike  is  work.  If  it  contains  also  moments  of  intense 
happiness,  that  is  because  happiness  here  is  rare  and  stolen, 
long  waited  for,  a  chance  godsend  amid  the  hateful  grind  of 
forced  pleasure  and  stage  smiles. 

To  Florine,  Kaoul's  power  was  a  sovereign  protection. 
He  saved  her  many  a  vexation  and  worry,  in  the  fashion  of 
a  great  noble  of  former  days  defending  his  mistress ;  or,  to 
take  a  modern  instance,  like  the  old  men  who  go  on  their 


342  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

knees  to  the  editor  when  their  idol  has  been  scarified  by 
some  halfpenny  print.  He  was  more  than  a  lover  to  her; 
he  was  a  staff  to  lean  on.  She  tended  him  like  a  father,  and 
deceived  him  like  a  husband;  but  there  was  nothing  in  the 
world  she  would  not  have  sacrificed  for  him.  Raoul  was 
indispensable  to  her  artistic  vanity,  to  the  tranquillity  of  her 
self-esteem,  and  to  her  dramatic  future.  Without  the  inter- 
vention of  some  great  writer,  no  great  actress  can  be  pro- 
duced; we  owe  la  Champmesle  to  Eacine,  as  we  owe  Mars  to 
Monvel  and  Andrieux.  Florine,  on  her  side,  could  do  noth- 
ing for  Rao  ill,  much  as  she  would  have  liked  to  be  useful  or 
necessary  to  him.  She  counted  on  the  seductions  of  habit, 
and  was  always  ready  to  open  her  rooms  and  offer  the  pro- 
fusion of  her  table  to  help  his  plans  or  his  friends.  In  fact, 
she  aspired  to  be  for  him  what  Madame  de  Pompadour  was 
for  Louis  XV. ;  and  there  were  actresses  who  envied  her 
her  position,  just  as  there  were  journalists  who  would  have 
changed  places  with  Raoul. 

Now,  those  who  know  the  bent  of  the  human  mind  to 
opposition  and  contrast  will  easily  understand  that  Raoul, 
after  ten  years  of  this  rakish  Bohemian  life,  should  weary  of 
its  ups  and  downs,  its  revelry  and  its  writs,  its  orgies  and  its 
fasts,  and  should  feel  drawn  to  a  pure  and  innocent  love,  as 
well  as  to  the  gentle  harmony  of  a  great  lady's  existence. 
In  the  same  way,  the  Comtesse  Felix  longed  to  introduce  the 
torments  of  passion  into  a  life  the  bliss  of  which  had  cloyed 
through  its  sameness.  This  law  of  life  is  the  law  of  all  art, 
which  exists  only  through  contrast.  A  work  produced  in- 
dependently of  such  aid  is  the  highest  expression  of  genius, 
as  the  cloister  is  the  highest  effort  of  Christianity. 

Raoul,  on  returning  home,  found  a  note  from  Florine, 
which  her  maid  had  brought,  but  was  too  sleepy  to  read  it. 
He  went  to  bed  in  the  restful  satisfaction  of  a  tender  love, 
which  had  so  far  been  lacking  to  his  life.  A  few  hours  later, 
he  found  important  news  in  this  letter,  news  of  which  neither 
Rastignac  nor  de  Marsay  had  dropped  a  hint.  Florine  had 
learned  from  some  indiscreet  friend  that  the  Chamber  was  to 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  343 

be  dissolved  at  the  close  of  tlie  session.  Raoul  at  once  went 
to  Florine's,  and  sent  for  Blondet  to  meet  him  there. 

In  Florine's  boudoir,  their  feet  upon  the  fire-dogs,  Emile 
and  Raoul  dissected  the  political  situation  of  France  in  1834. 
On  what  side  lay  the  best  chance  for  a  man  who  wanted  to 
get  on  ?  Every  shade  of  opinion  was  passed  in  review — 
Republicans  pure  and  simple,  Republicans  with  a  President, 
Republicans  without  a  republic,  Dynastic  Constitutionalists 
and  Constitutionalists  without  a  dynasty,  Conservative  Min- 
isterialists and  Absolutist  Ministerialists;  lastly,  the  com- 
promising right,  the  aristocratic  right,  the  Legitimist  right, 
the  Henri-quinquist  right,  and  the  Carlist  right.  As  be- 
tween the  party  of  obstruction  and  the  party  of  progress 
there  could  be  no  question;  as  well  might  one  hesitate  be- 
tween life  and  death. 

The  vast  number  of  newspapers  at  this  time  in  circulation, 
representing  different  shades  of  party,  was  significant  of  the 
chaotic  confusion — the  slush,  as  it  might  vulgarly  be  called 
— to  which  politics  were  reduced.  Blondet,  the  man  of  his 
day  with  most  judgment,  although,  like  a  barrister  unable 
to  plead  his  own  cause,  he  could  use  it  only  .on  behalf  of 
others,  was  magnificent  in  these  friendly  discussions.  His 
advice  to  Nathan  was  not  to  desert  abruptly. 

"It  was  Napoleon  who  said  that  young  republics  cannot 
be  made  out  of  old  monarchies.  Therefore,  do  you,  my 
friend,  become  the  hero,  the  pillar,  the  creator  of  a  left  cen- 
tre in  the  next  Chamber,  and  a  political  future  is  before  you. 
Once  past  the  barrier,  once  in  the  Ministry,  a  man  can  do 
what  he  pleases,  he  can  wear  the  winning  colors." 

Nathan  decided  to  start  a  political  daily  paper,  of  which 
he  should  have  the  complete  control,  and  to  affiliate  to  it  one 
of  those  small  society  sheets  with  which  the  press  swarmed, 
establishing  at  the  same  time  a  connection  with  some  maga- 
zine. The  press  had  been  the  mainspring  of  so  many  for- 
tunes around  him  that  Nathan  refused  to  listen  to  Blondet's 
warnings  against  trusting  to  it.  In  Blondet's  opinion,  the 
speculation  was  unsafe,  because  of  the  multitude  of  compet- 


344  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

ing  papers,  and  because  the  power  of  the  press  seemed  to 
him  used  up.  Eaoul,  strong  in  his  supposed  friends  and  in 
his  courage,  was  keen  to  go  forward;  with  a  gesture  of  pride 
he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  exclaimed:  "I  shall  succeed!" 

"You  haven't  a  penny!" 

"I  shall  write  a  play!" 

"It  will  fall  dead." 

"Let  it,"  said  Nathan. 

He  paced  up  and  down  Florine's  room,  followed  by 
Blondet,  who  thought  he  had  gone  crazy;  he  cast  covet- 
ous glances  on  the  costly  treasures  piled  up  around ;  then 
Blondet  understood  him. 

"There's  more  than  one  hundred  thousand  francs'  worth 
here,"  said  Emile. 

"Yes,"  said  Eaoul,  with  a  sigh  toward  Florine's  sumptu- 
ous bed;  "but  I  would  sell  patent  safety-chains  on  the  boule- 
vards and  live  on  fried  potatoes  all  my  life  rather  than  sell  a 
single  patera  from  these  rooms." 

"Not  one  patera,  no,"  said  Blondet,  "but  the  whole  lot! 
Ambition  is  like  death;  it  clutches  all  because  life,  it  knows, 
is  hounding  it  on. ' ' 

"No!  a  thousand  times,  no!  I  would  accept  anything 
from  that  Countess  of  yesterday,  but  to  rob  Florine  of  her 
nest?  .  .  ." 

"To  overthrow  one's  mint,"  said  Blondet,  with  a  tragic 
air,  "to  smash  up  the  coining-press,  and  break  the  stamp, 
is  certainly  serious." 

"From  what  I  can  gather,  you  are  abandoning  the  stage 
for  politics,"  said  Florine,  suddenly  breaking  in  on  them. 

"Yes,  my  child,  yes,"  said  Eaoul  good-naturedly,  put- 
ting his  arm  round  her  neck  and  kissing  her  forehead.  "  W  hy 
that  frown?  It  will  be  no  loss  to  you.  Won't  the  minister 
be  better  placed  than  the  journalist  for  getting  a  first-rate  en- 
gagement for  the  queen  of  the  boards  ?  You  will  still  have 
your  parts  and  your  holidays. ' ' 

"Where  is  the  money  to  come  from  ?"  she  asked. 

"From  my  uncle,"  replied  Eaoul. 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  345 

Florine  knew  this  "uncle."  The  word  meant  a  money- 
lender, just  as  "my  aunt"  was  the  vulgar  name  for  a  pawn- 
broker. 

"Don't  bother  yourself,  my  pretty  one,"  said  Blondet  to 
Florine,  patting  her  on  the  shoulder.  "I  will  get  Massol  to 
help  him.  He's  a  barrister,  and,  like  the  rest  of  them,  in- 
tends to  have  a  turn  at  being  Minister  of  Justice.  Then 
there's  du  Tillet,  who  wants  a  seat  in  the  Chamber;  Finot, 
who  is  still  backing  a  society  paper;  Plantin,  who  has  his 
eye  on  a  post  under  the  Conseil  d'Btat,  and  who  has  some 
share  in  a  magazine.  No  fear!  I  won't  let  him  ruin  him- 
self. We  will  get  a  meeting  here  with  Etienne  Lousteau, 
who  will  do  the  light  stuff,  and  Claude  Vignon  for  the  seri- 
ous criticism.  Felicien  Vernou  will  be  the  charwoman  of 
the  paper,  the  barrister  will  sweat  for  it,  du  Tillet  will  look 
after  trade  and  the  Exchange,  and  we  shall  see  where  this 
union  of  determined  men  and  their  tools  will  land  us. ' ' 

"In  the  workhouse  or  on  the  Government  bench,  those 
refuges  for  the  ruined  in  body  or  mind,"  said  Kaoul. 

"What  about  the  dinner?" 

"We'll  have  it  here,"  said  Baoul,  "five  days  hence." 

"Let  me  know  how  much  you  need,"  said  Florine  simply. 

"Why,  the  barrister,  du  Tillet,  and  Raoul  can't  start  with 
less  than  one  hundred  thousand  francs  apiece,"  said  Blondet. 
"That  will  run  the  paper  very  well  for  eighteen  months,  time 
enough  to  make  a  hit  or  miss  in  Paris." 

Florine  made  a  gesture  of  approval.  The  two  friends 
then  took  a  cab  and  set  out  in  quest  of  guests,  pens,  ideas, 
and  sources  of  support.  The  beautiful  actress  on  her  part 
seat  for  four  dealers  in  furniture,  curiosities,  pictures,  and 
jewelry.  The  dealers,  who  were  all  men  of  substance,  en- 
tered the  sanctuary  and  made  an  inventory  of  its  whole  con- 
tents, just  as  "though  Florine  were  dead.  She  threatened 
them  with  a  public  auction  in  case  they  hardened  their 
hearts  in  hope  of  a  better  opportunity.  She  had,  she  told 
them,  excited  the  admiration  of  an  English  lord  in  a  med- 
ieval part,  and  she  wished  to  dispose  of  all  her  personal 


346  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

property,  in  order  that  her  apparently  destitute  condition 
might  move  him  to  present  her  with  a  splendid  house,  which 
she  would  furnish  as  a  rival  to  Kothschild's.  With  all  her 
arts,  she  only  succeeded  in  getting  an  offer  of  seventy  thou- 
sand francs  for  the  whole  of  the  spoil,  which  was  well  worth 
one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand.  Florine,  who  did  not  care 
a  button  for  the  things,  promised  they  should  be  handed  over 
in  seven  days  for  eighty  thousand  francs. 

"You  can  take  it  or  leave  it,"  she  said. 

The  bargain  was  concluded.  When  the  dealers  had  gone, 
the  actress  skipped  for  joy,  like  the  little  hills  of  King  David. 
She  could  not  contain  herself  for  delight;  never  had  she 
dreamed  of  such  wealth.  When  Raoul  returned,  she  pre- 
tended to  be  offended  with  him,  and  declared  that  she  was 
deserted.  She  saw  through  it  all  now;  men  don't  change 
their  party  or  leave  the  stage  for  the  Chamber  without  some 
reason.  There  must  be  a  rival!  Her  instinct  told  her  so! 
Vows  of  eternal  love  rewarded  her  little  comedy. 

Five  days  later,  Florine  gave  a  magnificent  entertainment. 
The  ceremony  of  christening  the  paper  was  then  performed 
amid  floods  of  wine  and  wit,  oaths  of  fidelity,  of  good-fellow- 
ship, and  of  serious  alliance.  The  name,  forgotten  now,  like 
the  "Liberal,"  the  "Communal,"  the  "Departemental,"  the 
' ' Grarde  National, "  the  "  Federal, "  th e  "  Impartial , ' '  was  some- 
thing which  ended  in  "al, "  and  was  bound  not  to  take.  De- 
scriptions of  banquets  have  been  so  numerous  in  a  literary 
period  which  had  more  first-hand  experience  of  starving  in 
an  attic,  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  do  justice  to  Florine's. 
Suffice  it  to  say  that,  at  three  in  the  morning,  Florine  was 
able  to  undress  and  go  to  bed  as  if  she  had  been  alone, 
though  not  one  of  her  guests  had  left.  These  lights  of  their 
age  were  sleeping  like  pigs.  When,  early  in  the  morning, 
the  packers,  commissionaires,  and  porters  arrived  to  carry 
off  the  gorgeous  trappings  of  the  famous  actress,  she  laughed 
aloud  to  see  them  lifting  these  celebrities,  like  heavy  pieces 
of  furniture,  and  depositing  them  on  the  floor. 

Thus  the  splendid  collection  went  its  way. 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  347 

Florine  carried  her  personal  remembrances  to  shops  where 
the  sight  of  them  did  not  enlighten  passers-by  as  to  how  and 
when  these  flowers  of  luxury  had  been  paid  for.  It  was 
agreed  to  leave  her  until  the  evening  a  few  specially  re- 
served articles,  including  her  bed,  her  table,  and  her  crock- 
ery, so  that  she  might  offer  breakfast  to  her  guests.  These 
witty  gentlemen,  having  fallen  asleep  under  the  beauteous 
drapery  of  wealth,  awoke  to  the  cold,  naked  walls  of  pov- 
erty, studded  with  nail-marks  and  disfigured  by  those  in- 
congruous patches  which  are  found  at  the  back  of  wall 
decorations,  as  ropes  behind  an  opera  scene. 

"Why,  Florine,  the  poor  girl,  has  an  execution  in  the 
house!"  cried  Bixiou,  one  of  the  guests.  "Quick!  your 
pockets,  gentlemen!  A  subscription!" 

At  these  words  the  whole  company  was  on  foot.  The 
net  sweepings  of  the  pockets  came  to  thirty-seven  francs, 
which  Raoul  handed  over  with  mock  ceremony  to  the  laugh- 
ing Florine.  The  happy  courtesan  raised  her  head  from  the 
pillow  and  pointed  to  a  heap  of  banknotes  on  the  sheet,  thick 
as  in  the  golden  days  of  her  trade.  Eaoul  called  Blondet. 

"I see  it  now,"  said  Blondet.  "The  little  rogue  has  sold 
off  without  a  word  to  us.  Well  done,  Florine  1" 

Delighted  with  this  stroke,  the  few  friends  who  remained 
carried  Florine  in  triumph  and  deshabille  to  the  dining-room. 
The  barrister  and  the  bankers  had  gone.  That  evening  Flo- 
rine had  a  tremendous  reception  at  the  theatre.  The  rumor 
of  her  sacrifice  was  all  over  the  house. 

"I  should  prefer  to  be  applauded  for  my  talent,"  said 
Florine' s  rival  to  her  in  the  greenroom. 

"That  is  very  natural  on  the  part  of  an  artist  who  has 
never  yet  won  applause  except  for  the  lavishness  of  her 
favors,"  she  replied. 

During  the  evening  Florine's  maid  had  her  things  moved 
to  Raoul's  flat  in  the  Passage  Sandrie.  The  journalist  was 
to  pitch  his  camp  in  the  building  where  the  newspaper  office 
was  opened. 

Such  was  the  rival  of  the  ingenuous  Mme.  de  Vandenesse. 


BALZAC'S    WORKS 


Raoul's  fancy  was  a  link  binding  the  actress  to  the  lady  of 
title.  It  was  a  ghastly  tie  like  this  which  was  severed  by 
that  Duchess  of  Louis  XIV.  's  time  who  poisoned  Lecouvreur  ; 
nor  can  such  an  act  of  vengeance  be  wondered  at,  considering 
the  magnitude  of  the  offence. 


CHAPTER  VI 

LOVE  VERSUS   SOCIETY 

rMjORINE  PROVED  no  difficulty  in  the  early  stages 
ri  of  Raoul's  passion.  Foreseeing  financial  disappoint- 
ments in  the  hazardous  scheme  into  which  he  had 
plunged,  she  begged  leave  of  absence  for  six  months.  Raoul 
took  an  active  part  in  the  negotiation,  and  by  bringing  it  to 
a  successful  issue  "still  further  endeared  himself  to  Florine. 
With  the  good  sense  of  the  peasant  in  La  Fontaine's  fable, 
who  makes  sure  of  his  dinner  while  the  patricians  are  chat- 
tering over  plans,  the  actress  hurried  off  to  the  provinces  and 
abroad,  to  glean  the  wherewithal  to  support  the  great  man 
during  his  place -hunting. 

Up  to  the  present  time  the  art  of  fiction  has  seldom  dealt 
with  love  as  it  shows  itself  in  the  highest  society,  a  com- 
pound of  noble  impulse  and  hidden  wretchedness.  There 
is  a  terrible  strain  in  the  constant  check  imposed  on  passion 
by  the  most  trivial  and  trumpery  incidents,  and  not  infre- 
quently the  thread  snaps  from  sheer  lassitude.  Perhaps 
some  glimpse  of  what  it  means  may  be  obtained  here. 

The  day  after  Lady  Dudley's  ball,  although  nothing 
approaching  a  declaration  had  escaped  on  either  side,  Marie 
felt  that  Raoul's  love  was  the  realization  of  her  dreams,  and 
Raoul  had  no  doubt  that  he  was  the  chosen  of  Marie's  heart. 
Neither  of  the  two  had  reached  that  point  of  depravity  where 
preliminaries  are  curtailed,  and  yet  they  advanced  rapidly 
toward  the  end.  Raoul,  sated  with  pleasure,  was  in  the 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE 

mood  for  Platonic  affection;  while  Marie,  from  whom  the 
idea  of  an  actual  fault  was  still  remote,  had  never  contem- 
plated passing  beyond  it.  Never,  therefore,  was  love  more 
pure  and  innocent  in  fact,  or  more  impassioned  and  rapturous 
in  thought,  than  this  of  Kaoul  and  Marie.  The  Countess 
had  been  fascinated  by  ideas  which,  though  clothed  in  mod- 
ern dress,  belonged  to  the  times  of  chivalry.  In  her  role,  as 
she  conceived  it,  her  husband's  dislike  to  Nathan  no  longer 
appeared  an  obstacle  to  her  love.  The  less  Raoul  merited 
esteem,  the  nobler  was  her  mission.  The  inflated  language 
of  the  poet  stirred  her  imagination  rather  than  her  blood.  It 
was  charity  which  wakened  at  the  call  of  passion.  This 
queen  of  the  virtues  lent  what  in  the  eyes  of  the  Countess 
seemed  almost  a  sanction  to  the  tremors,  the  delights,  the  tur- 
bulence of  her  love.  She  felt  it  a  fine  thing  to  be  the  human 
providence  of  Eaoul.  How  sweet  to  think  of  supporting 
with  her  feeble,  white  hand  this  colossal  figure,  whose  feet 
of  clay  she  refused  to  see,  of  sowing  life  where  none  had 
been,  of  working  in  secret  at  the  foundation  of  a  great  des- 
tiny. With  her  help  this  man  of  genius  should  wrestle  with 
and  overcome  his  fate;  her  hand  should  embroider  his  scarf 
for  the  tourney,  buckle  on  his  armor,  give  him  a  charm 
against  sorcery,  and  balm  for  all  his  wounds! 

In  a  woman  with  Marie's  noble  nature  and  religious  up- 
bringing this  passionate  charity  was  the  only  form  love 
could  assume.  Hence  her  boldness.  The  pure  in  mind 
have  a  superb  disdain  for  appearances,  which  may  be  mis- 
taken for  the  shamelessness  of  the  courtesan.  No  sooner 
had  the  Countess  assured  herself  by  casuistical  arguments 
that  her  husband's  honor  ran  no  risk,  than  she  abandoned 
herself  completely  to  the  bliss  of  loving  Raoul.  The  most 
trivial  things  in  life  had  now  a  charm  for  her.  The  boudoir, 
in  which  she  dreamed  of  him,  became  a  sanctuary.  Even  her 
pretty  writing-table  recalled  to  her  the  countless  joys  of  cor- 
respondence; there  she  would  have  to  read,  to  hide,  his  let- 
.ters;  there  reply  to  them.  Dress,  that  splendid  poem  of  a 
woman's  life,  the  significance  of  which  she  had  either  ex- 


360  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

hausted  or  ignored,  now  appeared  to  her  full  of  a  magic 
hitherto  unknown.  Suddenly  it  became  to  her  what  it  is  to 
all  women — a  continuous  expression  of  the  inner  thought, 
a  language,  a  symbol.  What  wealth  of  delight  in  a  costume 
designed  for  his  pleasure,  in  his  honor!  She  threw  herself 
with  all  simplicity  into  those  charming  nothings  which  make 
the  business  of  a  Paris  woman's  life,  and  which  charge  with 
meaning  «very  detail  in  her  house,  her  person,  her  clothes. 
Bare  indeed  are  the  women  who  frequent  dress  shops,  mil- 
liners, and  fashionable  tailors  simply  for  their  own  pleasure. 
As  they  become  old  they  cease  to  think  of  dress.  Scrutinize 
the  face  which  in  passing  you  see  for  a  moment  arrested  be- 
fore a  shop-front:  "Would  he  like  me  better  in  this ?"  are 
the  words  written  plain  in  the  clearing  brow,  in  eyes  spark- 
ling with  hope,  and  in  the  smile  that  plays  upon  the  lips. 

Lady  Dudley's  ball  took  place  on  a  Saturday  evening; 
on  the  Monday  the  Countess  went  to  the  opera,  allured  by 
the  certainty  of  seeing  RaouL  Raoul,  in  fact,  was  there, 
planted  on  one  of  the  staircases  which  lead  down  to  the 
amphitheatre  stalls.  He  lowered  his  eyes  as  the  Countess 
entered  her  box.  With  what  ecstasy  did  Mme.  de  Yande- 
nesse  observe  the  unwonted  carefulness  of  her  lover's  attire! 
This  contemner  of  the  laws  of  elegance  might  be  seen  with 
well-brushed  hair,  which  shone  with  scent  in  the  recesses  of 
every  curl,  a  fashionable  waistcoat,  a  well-fastened  tie,  and 
an  immaculate  shirt-front.  Under  the  yellow  gloves,  which 
were  the  order  of  the  day,  his  hands  showed  very  white. 
Raoul  kept  his  arms  crossed  over  his  breast,  as  though  posing 
for  his  portrait,  superbly  indifferent  to  the  whole  house,  which 
murmured  with  barely  restrained  impatience.  His  eyes, 
though  bent  on  the  ground,  seemed  turned  toward  the  red 
velvet  bar  on  which  Marie's  arm  rested.  Felix,  seated  in 
the  opposite  corner  of  the  box,  had  his  back  to  Nathan. 
The  Countess  had  been  adroit  enough  to  place  herself  so  that 
she  looked  straight  down  on  the  pillar  against  which  Raoul 
leaned.  In  a  single  hour,  then,  Marie  had  brought  this 
clever  man  to  abjure  his  cynicism  in  dress.  The  humblest, 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  351 

as  well  as  the  most  distinguished,  woman  must  feel  her  head 
turned  by  the  first  open  declaration  of  her  power  in  such  a 
transformation.  Every  change  is  a  confession  of  servitude. 

"They  were  right,  there  is  a  great  happiness  in  being 
understood,"  she  said  to  herself,  calling  to  mind  her  un- 
worthy instructors. 

When  the  two  lovers  had  scanned  the  house  in  a  rapid  all- 
embracing  survey,  they  exchanged  a  glance  of  intelligence. 
For  both  it  was  as  though  a  heavenly  dew  had  fallen  with 
cooling  power  upon  their  fevered  suspense. 

"I  have  been  in  hell  for  an  hour;  now  the  heavens  open," 
spoke  the  eyes  of  Eaoul. 

"I  knew  you  were  there,  but  am  I  free?"  replied  those 
of  the  Countess. 

None  bat  slaves  of  every  variety,  including  thieves,  spies, 
lovers  and  diplomatists,  know  all  that  a  flash  of  the  eye  can 
convey  of  information  or  delight.  They  alone  can  grasp  the 
intelligence,  the  sweetness,  the  humor,  the  wrath,  and  the 
malice  with  which  this  changeful  lightning  of  the  soul  is 
pregnant.  Raoul  felt  his  passion  kick  against  the  pricks  of 
necessity  and  grow  more  vigorous  in  presence  of  obstacles. 
Between  the  step  on  which  he  was  perched  and  the  box  of 
the  Comtesse  Felix  de  Vandenesse  was  a  space  of  barely  thirty 
feet,  impassable  for  him.  To  a  passionate  man  who,  so  far 
in  his  life,  had  known  but  little  interval  between  desire  and 
satisfaction,  this  abyss  of  solid  ground,  which  could  not  be 
spanned,  inspired  a  wild  desire  to  spring  upon  the  Countess 
in  a  tiger-like  bound.  In  a  paroxysm  of  fury  he  tried  to  feel 
his  way.  He  bowed  openly  to  the  Countess,  who  replied  with 
a  slight,  scornful  inclination  of  the  head,  such  as  women  use 
for  snubbing  their  admirers.  Felix  turned  to  see  who  had 
greeted  his  wife,  and  perceiving  Nathan,  of  whom  he  took 
no  notice  beyond  a  mute  inquiry  as  to  the  cause  of  this  lib- 
erty, turned  slowly  away  again,  with  some  words  probably 
approving  of  his  wife's  assumed  coldness.  Plainly  the  door 
of  the  box  was  barred  against  Nathan,  who  hurled  a  threat- 
ening glance  at  Felix,  which  it  required  no  great  wit  to  in- 


852  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

terpret  by  one  of  Florine's  sallies,  "Look  out  for  your  hat; 
it  will  soon  not  rest  on  your  head!" 

Mme.  d'Espard,  one  of  the  most  insolent  women  of  her 
time,  who  had  been  watching  these  manoeuvres  from  her  box, 
now  raised  her  voice  in  some  meaningless  bravo.  Baoul, 
who  was  standing  beneath  her,  turned.  He  bowed,  and 
received  in  return  a  gracious  smile,  which  so  clearly  said, 
"If  you  are  dismissed  there,  corne  to  me!"  that  Eaoul  left 
his  column  and  went  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mme.  d'Espard.  He 
wanted  to  be  seen  there  in  order  to  show  that  fellow  Yande- 
nesse  that  his  fame  was  equal  to  a  patent  of  nobility,  and  that 
before  Nathan  blazoned  doors  flew  open.  The  Marchioness 
made  him  sit  down  in  the  front  of  the  box  opposite  to  her. 
She  intended  to  play  the  inquisitor. 

"Mme.  Felix  de  Vandenesse  looks  charming  to-night," 
she  said,  congratulating  him  on  the  lady's  dress,  as  though 
it  were  a  book  he  had  just  published. 

"Yes,"  said  Eaoul  carelessly,  "marabouts  are  very  be- 
coming to  her.  But  she  is  too  constant,  she  wore  them  the 
day  before  yesterday, ' '  he  added,  with  an  easy  air,  as  though 
by  his  critical  attitude  to  repudiate  the  flattering  complicity 
which  the  Marchioness  had  laid  to  his  charge. 

"You  know  the  proverb?"  she  replied.  "  'Every  feast 
day  should  have  a  morrow.'  ' 

At  the  game  of  repartee  literary  giants  are  not  always 
equal  to  ladies  of  title.  Raoul  took  refuge  in  a  pretended 
stupidity,  the  last  resource  of  clever  men. 

"The  proverb  is  true  for  me,"  he  said,  casting  an  admir- 
ing look  on  the  Marchioness. 

"Your  pretty  speech,  sir,  comes  too  late  for  me  to  accept 
it,"  she  replied,  laughing.  "Come,  come,  don't  be  a  prude; 
in  the  small  hours  of  yesterda}^  morning,  you  thought  Mme. 
de  Vandenesse  entrancing  in  marabouts;  she  was  perfectly 
aware  of  it,  and  puts  them  on  again  to  please  you.  She  is 
in  love  with  you,  and  you  adore  her ;  no  time  has  been  lost, 
certainly;  still  I  see  nothing  in  it  but  what  is  most  natural. 
If  it  were  not  as  I  say,  you  would  not  be  tearing  your  glove 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE 

to  pieces  in  your  rage  at  having  to  sit  here  beside  me,  instead 
of  in  the  box  of  your  idol — which  has  just  been  shut  in  your 
face  by  supercilious  authority — whispering  low  what  you 
would  fain  hear  said  aloud." 

Eaoul  was  in  fact  twisting  one  of  his  gloves,  and  the  hand 
which  he  showed  was  surprisingly  white. 

"She  has  won  from  you,"  she  went  on,  fixing  his  hand 
with  an  impertinent  stare,  "sacrifices  which  you  refused  to 
society.  She  ought  to  be  enchanted  at  her  success,  and,  I 
dare  say,  she  is  a  little  vain  of  it;  but  in  her  place  I  think 
I  should  be  more  so.  So  far  she  has  only  been  a  woman  of 
good  parts,  now  she  will  pass  for  a  woman  of  genius.  We 
shall  find  her  portrait  in  one  of  those  delightful  books  of 
yours.  But,  my  dear  friend,  do  me  the  kindness  not  to  for- 
get Vandenesse.  That  man  is  really  too  fatuous.  I  could 
not  stand  such  self-complacency  in  Jupiter  Olympus  him- 
self, who  is  said  to  have  been  the  only  god  in  mythology 
exempt  from  domestic  misfortune." 

"Madame,"  cried  Raoul,  "you  credit  me  with  a  very  base 
soul  if  you  suppose  that  I  would  make  profit  out  of  my  feel- 
ings, out  of  my  love.  Sooner  than  be  guilty  of  such  literary 
dishonor,  I  would  follow  the  English  custom,  and  drag  a 
woman  to  market  with  a  rope  round  her  neck. ' ' 

"But  I  know  Marie;  she  will  ask  you  to  do  it." 

"No,  she  is  incapable  of  it,"  protested  Raoul. 

"You  know  her  intimately  then?" 

Nathan  could  not  help  laughing  that  he,  a  playwright, 
should  be  caught  in  this  little  comedy  dialogue. 

"The  play  is  no  longer  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
footlights;  "it  rests  with  you." 

To  hide  his  confusion,  he  took  the  opera-glass  and  began 
to  examine  the  house. 

"Are  you  vexed  with  me?"  said  the  Marchioness,  with 
a  sidelong  glance  at  him.  "Wouldn't  your  secret  have  been 
mine  in  any  case?  It  won't  be  hard  to  make  peace.  Come 
to  my  house,  I  am  at  home  every  Wednesday;  the  dear 
Countess  won't  miss  an  evening  when  she  finds  you  come, 


364  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

and  I  shall  be  the  gainer.  Sometimes  she  comes  to  me  be- 
tween four  and  five  o'clock;  I  will  be  very  good-natured, 
and  add  you  to  the  select  few  admitted  at  that  hour. ' ' 

"Only  see,"  said  Kaoul,  "how  unjust  people  are!  I  was 
told  you  were  spiteful. 

"Oh!  so  I  am,"  she  said,  "when  I  want  to  be.  One  has 
to  fight  for  one's  own  hand.  But  as  for  your  Countess,  I 
adore  her.  You  have  no  idea  how  charming  she  is!  You 
will  be  the  first  to  have  your  name  inscribed  on  her  heart 
with  that  infantine  joy  which  causes  all  lovers,  even  drill- 
sergeants,  to  cut  their  initials  on  the  bark  of  a  tree.  A 
woman's  first  love  is  a  luscious  fruit.  Later,  you  see,  there 
is  always  some  calculation  in  our  attentions  and  caresses. 
I'm  an  old  woman,  and  can  say  what  I  like;  nothing  fright- 
ens me,  not  even  a  journalist.  Well,  then,  in  the  autumn 
of  life,  we  know  how  to  make  you  happy;  but  when  love  is 
a  new  thing,  we  are  happy  ourselves,  and  that  gives  endless 
satisfaction  to  your  pride.  We  are  full  of  delicious  surprises 
then,  because  the  heart  is  fresh.  You,  who  are  a  poet,  must 
prefer  flowers  to  fruit.  Six  months  hence  you  shall  tell  me 
about  it. ' ' 

Raoul  began  with  denying  everything,  as  all  men  do 
when  they  are  brought  to  the  bar,  but  found  that  this 
only  supplied  weapons  to  so  practiced  a  champion.  En- 
tangled in  the  noose  of  a  dialogue,  manipulated  with  all 
the  dangerous  adroitness  of  a  woman  and  a  Parisian,  he 
dreaded  to  let  fall  admissions  which  would  serve  as  fuel 
for  the  lady's  wit,  and  he  beat  a  prudent  retreat  when  he 
saw  Lady  Dudley  enter. 

"Well,"  said  the  Englishwoman,  "how  far  have  they 
gone  ? ' ' 

"They  are  desperately  in  love.  Nathan  has  just  told 
me  so." 

"1  wish  he  had  been  uglier,"  said  Lady  Dudley,  with  a 
venomous  scowl  at  Felix.  "Otherwise,  he  is  exactly  what 
1  would  have  wished;  he  is  the  son  of  a  Jewish  broker,  who 
died  bankrupt  shortly  after  his  marriage;  unfortunately, 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  355 

his  mother  was  a  Catholic,  and  has  made  a  Christian  of 
him." 

Nathan's  origin,  which  he  kept  a  most  profound  secret, 
was  a  new  discovery  to  Lady  Dudley,  who  gloated  in  ad- 
vance over  the  delight  of  drawing  thence  some  pointed  shaft 
to  aim  at  Vandenesse. 

"And  I've  just  asked  him  to  my  house!"  exclaimed  the 
Marchioness. 

"Wasn't  he  at  my  ball  yesterday  ?"  replied  Lady  Dudley. 
"There  are  pleasures,  my  dear,  for  which  one  pays  heavily." 

The  news  of  a  mutual  passion  between  Raoul  and  Mme. 
de  Vandenesse  went  the  round  of  society  that  evening,  not 
without  calling  forth  protests  and  doubts;  but  the  Countess 
was  defended  by  her  friends,  Lady  Dudley,  Mmes.  d'Espard 
and  de  Manerville,  with  a  clumsy  eagerness  which  gained 
some  credence  for  the  rumor.  Yielding  to  necessity,  Eaoul 
went  on  Wednesday  evening  to  Mme.  d'Espard's,  and  found 
there  the  usual  distinguished  company.  As  Felix  did  not 
accompany  his  wife,  Raoul  was  able  to  exchange  a  few  words 
with  Marie,  the  tone  of  which  expressed  more  than  the  mat- 
ter. The  Countess,  warned  against  malicious  gossips  by 
Mme.  Octave  de  Camps,  realized  her  critical  position  before 
society,  and  contrived  to  make  Kaoul  understand  it  also. 

Amid  this  gay  assembly,  the  lovers  found  their  only  joy 
in  a  long  draught  of  the  delicious  sensations  arising  from  the 
words,  the  voice,  the  gestures,  and  the  bearing  of  the  loved 
one.  The  soul  clings  desperately  to  such  trifles.  At  times 
the  eyes  of  both  will  converge  upon  the  same  spot,  embed- 
ding there,  as  it  were,  a  thought  of  which  they  thus  risk  the 
interchange.  They  talk,  and  longing  looks  follow  the  peep- 
ing foot,  the  quivering  hand,  the  fingers  which  toy  with  some 
ornament,  flicking  it,  twisting  it  about,  then  dropping  it,  in 
significant  fashion.  It  is  no  longer  words  or  thoughts  which 
make  themselves  heard,  it  is  things;  and  that  in  so  clear  a 
voice  that  often  the  man  who  loves  will  leave  to  others  the 
task  of  handing  a  cup  of  tea,  a  sugar-basin,  or  what  not,  to 
his  lady-love,  in  dread  lest  his  agitation  should  be  visible 


356  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

to  eyes  which,  apparently  seeing  nothing,  see  all.  Throng- 
ing desires,  mad  wishes,  passionate  thoughts,  find  their  way 
into  a  glance  and  die  out  there.  The  pressure  of  a  hand, 
eluding  a  thousand  Argus  eyes,  is  eloquent  as  written  pages, 
burning  as  a  kiss.  Love  grows  by  all  that  it  denies  itself; 
it  treads  on  obstacles  to  reach  the  higher.  And  barriers, 
more  often  cursed  than  cleared,  are  hacked  and  cast  into  the 
fire  to  feed  its  flames.  Here  it  is  that  women  see  the  meas- 
ure of  their  power,  when  love,  that  is  boundless,  coils  up  and 
hides  itself  within  a  thirsty  glance,  a  nervous  thrill,  behind 
the  screen  of  formal  civility.  How  often  has  not  a  single 
word,  on  the  last  step  of  a  staircase,  paid  the  price  of  an 
evening's  silent  agony  and  empty  talk! 

Eaoul,  careless  of  social  forms,  gave  rein  to  his  anger  in 
brilliant  oratory.  Everybody  present  could  hear  the  lion's 
roar,  and  recognized  the  artist's  nature,  intolerant  of  disap- 
pointment. This  Orlando-like  rage,  this  cutting  and  slashing 
wit,  this  laying  on  of  epigrams,  as  with  a  club,  enraptured 
Marie  and  amused  the  onlookers,  much  as  the  spectacle  of 
a  maddened  bull,  covered  with  streamers,  in  a  Spanish  am- 
phitheatre, might  have  done. 

"Hit  out  as  much  as  you  like,  you  can't  clear  the  ring," 
Blondet  said  to  him. 

This  sarcasm  restored  to  Raoul  his  presence  of  mind;  he 
ceased  making  an  exhibition  of  himself  and  his  vexation. 
The  Marchioness  came  to  offer  him  a  cup  of  tea,  and  said, 
loud  enough  for  Marie  to  hear:  "You  are  really  very  amus- 
ing; come  and  see  me  sometimes  at  four  o'clock." 

Eaoul  took  offence  at  the  word  "amusing."  although  it 
had  served  as  passport  to  the  invitation.  He  began  to  give 
ear,  as  actors  do,  when  they  are  attending  to  the  house  and 
not  to  the  stage.  Blondet  took  pity  on  him. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  drawing  him  aside  into  a  cor- 
ner, "you  behave  in  polite  society  exactly  as  you  might  at 
Florine's.  Here  nobody  flies  into  a  passion,  nobody  lect- 
ures; from  time  to  time  a  smart  thing  may  be  said,  and  you 
must  look  most  impassive  at  the  very  moment  when  you  long 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  357 

to  throw  some  one  out  of  the  window ;  a  gentle  raillery  is 
allowed,  and  some  show  of  attention  to  the  lady  you  adore, 
but  you  can't  lie  down  and  kick  like  a  donkey  in  the  middle 
of  the  road.  Here,  my  good  soul,  love  proceeds  by  rule. 
Either  carry  off  Mme.  de  Vandenesse  or  behave  like  a  gen- 
tleman. You  are  too  much  the  lover  of  one  of  your  own 
romances. ' ' 

Nathan  listened  with  hanging  head;  he  was  a  wild  beast 
caught  in  the  toils. 

"I  shall  never  set  foot  here  again,"  said  he.  "This 
papier- macho"  Marchioness  puts  too  high  a  price  upon  her 
tea.  She  thinks  rne  amusing,  does  she  ?  Now  I  know  why 
St.  Just  guillotined  all  these  people." 

"You'll  come  back  to-morrow." 

Blondet  was  right.  Passion  is  as  cowardly  as  it  is  cruel. 
The  next  day,  after  fluctuating  long  between  "I'll  go"  and 
"I  won't  go,"  Eaoul  left  his  partners  in  the  middle  of  an 
important  discussion  to  hasten  to  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore 
and  Mme.  d'Espard's  house.  The  sight  of  Rastignac's  ele- 
gant cabriolet  driving  up  as  he  was  paying  his  cabman  at 
the  door  hurt  Nathan's  vanity;  he  too  would  have  such  a 
cabriolet,  he  resolved,  and  the  correct  tiger.  The  carriage 
of  the  Countess  was  in  the  court,  and  Baoul's  heart  swelled 
with  joy  as  he  perceived  it.  Marie's  movements  responded 
to  her  longings  with  the  regularity  of  a  clock-hand  propelled 
by  its  spring.  She  was  reclining  in  an  armchair  by  the  fire- 
place in  the  small  drawing-room.  Instead  of  looking  at  Nathan 
as  he  entered,  she  gazed  at  his  reflection  in  the  mirror,  feel- 
ing sure  that  the  mistress  of  the  house  would  turn  to  him. 
Love,  baited  by  society,  is  forced  to  have  recourse  to  these 
little  tricks;  it  endows  with  life  mirrors,  muffs,  fans,  and 
numberless  objects,  the  purpose  of  which  is  not  clear  at  first 
sight,  and  is  indeed  never  found  out  by  many  of  the  women 
who  use  them. 

"The  Prime  Minister,"  said  Mme.  d'Espard,  with  a  glance 
at  de  Marsay,  as  she  drew  Nathan  into  the  conversation,  "was 
just  declaring,  when  you  came  in,  that  there  is  an  understand- 


358  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

ing  between  the  Royalists  and  Republicans.  "What  do  you 
say  ?  You  ought  to  know  something  about  it." 

"Supposing  it  were  so,  where  would  be  the  harm?"  said 
Raoul.  "The  object  of  our  animosity  is  the  same;  we  agree 
in  our  hatred,  and  differ  only  in  what  we  love." 

"The  alliance  is  at  least  singular,"  said  de  Marsay, 
with  a  glance  which  embraced  Raoul  and  the  Comtesse 
Felix. 

"It  will  not  last,"  said  Rastignac,  who,  like  all  novices, 
took  his  politics  a  little  too  seriously. 

"What  do  you  say,  darling?"  asked  Mme.  d'Espard  of 
the  Countess. 

"I!  oh!  I  know  nothing  about  politics." 

"You  will  learn,  Madame,"  said  de  Marsay,  "and  then 
you  will  be  doubly  oar  enemy." 

Neither  Nathan  nor  Marie  understood  de  Marsay's  sally 
till  he  had  gone.  Rastignac  followed  him,  and  Mme.  d'Es- 
pard went  with  them  both  as  far  as  the  door  of  the  first 
drawing-room.  Not  another  thought  did  the  lovers  give  to 
the  minister's  epigram;  they  saw  the  priceless  wealth  of  a 
few  minutes  before  them.  Marie  swiftly  removed  her  glove, 
and  held  out  her  hand  to  Raoul,  who  took  it  and  kissed  it 
with  the  fervor  of  eighteen.  The  eyes  of  the  Countess  were 
eloquent  of  a  devotion  so  generous  and  absolute  that  Raoul 
felt  his  own  moisten.  A  tear  is  always  at  the  command  of 
men  of  nervous  temperament. 

"Where  can  I  see  you — speak  to  you?"  he  said.  "It 
will  kill  me  if  I  must  perpetually  disguise  my  looks  and  my 
voice,  my  heart  and  my  love." 

Moved  by  the  tear,  Marie  promised  to  go  to  the  Bois  when- 
ever the  weather  did  not  make  it  impossible.  This  promise 
gave  Raoul  more  happiness  than  Florine  had  brought  him 
in  five  years. 

"I  have  so  much  to  say  to  you!  I  suffer  so  from  the 
silence  to  which  we  are  condemned!" 

The  Countess  was  gazing  at  him  rapturously,  unable  to 
reply,  when  the  Marchioness  returned. 


A   DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  869 

"So!"  she  exclaimed  as  she  entered,  "you  had  no  retort 
for  de  Marsay!" 

"One  must  respect  the  dead,"  replied  Eaoul.  "Don't 
you  see  that  he  is  at  the  last  gasp  ?  Rastignac  is  acting  as 
nurse,  and  hopes  to  be  mentioned  in  the  will." 

The  Countess  made  an  excuse  of  having  calls  to  pay,  and 
took  leave,  as  a  precaution  against  gossip.  For  this  quarter 
of  an  hour  Raoul  had  sacrificed  precious  time  and  most  urgent 
claims.  Marie  as  yet  knew  nothing  of  the  details  of  a  life 
which,  while  to  all  appearance  gay  and  idle  as  a  bird's,  had 
yet  its  side  of  very  complicated  business  and  extremely  tax- 
ing work.  When  two  beings,  united  by  an  enduring  love, 
lead  a  life  which  each  day  knits  them  more  closely  in  the 
bonds  of  mutual  confidence  and  by  the  interchange  of  coun- 
sel over  difficulties  as  they  arise;  when  two  hearts  pour  forth 
their  sorrows,  night  and  morning,  with  mingled  sighs;  when 
they  share  the  same  suspense  and  shudder  together  at  a  com- 
mon danger,  then  everything  is  taken  into  account.  The 
woman  then  can  measure  the  love  in  an  averted  gaze,  the 
cost  of  a  hurried  visit,  she  has  her  part  in  the  business, 
the  hurrying  to  and  fro,  the  hopes  and  anxieties  of  the 
hard- worked,  harassed  man.  If  she  complains,  it  is  only 
of  the  actual  conditions;  her  doubts  are  at  rest,  for  she 
knows  and  appreciates  the  details  of  his  life.  But  in  the 
opening  chapters  of  passion,  when  all  is  eagerness,  sus- 
picion, and  demands;  when  neither  of  the  two  know  them- 
selves or  each  other;  when,  in  addition,  the  woman  is  an 
idler,  expecting  love  to  stand  guard  all  day  at  her  door — 
one  of  those  who  have  an  exaggerated  estimate  of  their  own 
claims,  and  choose  to  be  obeyed  even  when  obedience  spells 
ruin  to  a  career — then  love,  in  Paris  and  at  the  present  time, 
becomes  a  superhuman  task.  Women  of  fashion  have  not 
yet  thrown  off  the  traditions  of  the  eighteenth  century,  when 
every  man  had  his  own  place  marked  out  for  him.  Few  of 
them  know  anything  of  the  difficulties  of  existence  for  the 
bulk  of  men,  all  with  a  position  to  carve  out,  a  distinction 
to  win,  a  fortune  to  consolidate.  Men  of  well-established 


360  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

fortune  are,  at  present,  rare  exceptions.  Only  the  old  have 
time  for  love;  men  in  their  prime  are  chained,  like  Nathan, 
to  the  galleys  of  ambition. 

Women,  not  yet  reconciled  to  this  change  of  habits,  can- 
not bring  themselves  to  believe  any  man  short  of  the  time 
which  is  so  cheap  a  commodity  with  them;  they  can  imagine 
no  occupations  or  aims  other  than  their  own.  Had  the  gal- 
lant vanquished  the  hydra  of  Lerna  to  get  at  them,  he  would 
not  rise  one  whit  in  their  estimation;  the  joy  of  seeing  him 
is  everything.  They  are  grateful  because  he  makes  them 
happy,  but  never  think  of  asking  what  their  happiness  has 
cost  him.  Whereas,  if  they,  in  an  idle  hour,  have  devised 
some  stratagem  such  as  they  abound  in,  they  flaunt  it  in 
your  eyes  as  something  superlative.  You  have  wrenched 
the  iron  bars  of  destiny,  while  they  have  played  with  sub- 
terfuge and  diplomacy — and  yet  the  palm  is  theirs,  dispute 
were  vain.  After  all.  are  they  not  right  ?  The  woman  who 
gives  up  all  for  you,  should  she  not  receive  all  ?  She  exacts 
no  more  than  she  gives. 

Kaoul,  during  his  walk  home,  pondered  on  the  difficulty 
of  directing  at  one  and  the  same  time  a  fashionable  intrigue, 
the  ten-horse  chariot  of  journalism,  his  theatrical  pieces,  and 
his  entangled  personal  affairs. 

"It  will  be  a  wretched  paper  to-night,"  he  said  to  him- 
self as  he  went;  "nothing  from  my  hand,  and  the  second 
number  too!" 

Mme.  Felix  de  "Vandenesse  went  three  times  to  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne  without  seeing  Raoul ;  she  came  home  agitated 
and  despairing.  Nathan  was  determined  not  to  show  himself 
till  he  could  do  so  in  all  the  glory  of  a  press  magnate.  He 
spent  the  week  in  looking  out  for  a  pair  of  horses  and  a  suit- 
able cabriolet  and  tiger,  in  persuading  his  partners  of  the 
necessity  of  sparing  time  so  valuable  as  his,  and  in  getting 
the  purchase  put  down  to  the  general  expenses  of  the  paper. 
Massol  and  du  Tillet  agreed  so  readily  to  this  request  that 
he  thought  them  the  best  fellows  in  the  world.  But  for  this 
assistance,  life  would  have  been  impossible  for  Eaoul.  As 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  361 

it  was,  it  became  so  taxing,  in  spite  of  the  exquisite  delights 
of  ideal  love  with  which  it  was  mingled,  that  many  men,  even 
of  excellent  constitution,  would  have  broken  down  under  the 
strain  of  such  distractions.  A  violent  and  reciprocal  passion 
is  bound  to  bulk  largely  even  in  an  ordinary  life;  but  when 
its  object  is  a  woman  of  conspicuous  position,  like  Mme.  de 
Vandenesse,  it  cannot  fail  to  play  havoc  with  that  of  a  busy 
man  like  Nathan. 

Here  are  some  of  the  duties  to  which  his  passion  gave 
the  first  place.  Almost  every  day  between  two  and  three 
o'clock  he  rode  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  in  the  style  of  the 
purest  dandy.  He  then  learned  in  what  house  or  at  what 
theatre  he  might  meet  Mme.  de  Vandenesse  again  that 
evening.  He  never  left  a  reception  till  close  upon  mid- 
night, when  he  had  at  last  succeeded  in  snapping  up  some 
long-watched -for  words,  a  few  crumbs  of  tenderness,  art- 
fully dropped  below  the  table,  or  in  a  corridor,  or  on  the 
way  to  the  carriage.  Marie,  who  had  launched  him  in 
the  world  of  fashion,  generally  got  him  invitations  to 
dinner  at  the  houses  where  she  visited.  Nothing  could 
be  more  natural.  Raoul  was  too  proud,  and  also  too  much 
in  love,  to  say  a  word  about  business.  He  had  to  obey 
every  caprice  and  whim  of  his  innocent  tyrant;  while,  at 
the  same  time,  following  closely  the  debates  in  the  Cham- 
ber and  the  rapid  current  of  politics,  directing  his  paper, 
and  bringing  out  two  plays  which  were  to  furnish  the 
sinews  of  war.  If  ever  he  asked  to  be  let  off  a  ball,  a 
concert,  or  a  drive,  a  look  of  annoyance  from  Mme.  de 
Vandenesse  was  enough  to  make  him  sacrifice  his  interests 
to  her  pleasure. 

When  he  returned  home  from  these  engagements  at  one 
or  two  in  the  morning,  he  worked  till  eight  or  nine,  leaving 
scant  time  for  sleep.  Directly  he  was  up,  he  plunged  into 
consultations  with  influential  supporters  as  to  the  policy  of 
the  paper.  A  thousand  and  one  internal  difficulties  mean- 
time would  await  his  settlement,  for  journalism  nowadays 
has  an  all-embracing  grasp.  Business,  public  and  private 

Vol.  A.  BALZAO— 16 


362  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

interests  new  ventures,  the  personal  sensitiveness  of  liter- 
ary men,  as  well  as  their  compositions — nothing  is  alien  to 
it.  When,  harassed  and  exhausted,  Nathan  Hew  from  his 
office  to  the  theatre,  from  the  theatre  to  the  Chamber,  from 
the  Chamber  to  a  creditor,  he  had  next  to  present  himself, 
calm  and  smiling,  before  Marie,  and  canter  beside  her  car- 
riage with  the  ease  of  a  man  who  has  no  cares,  and  whose 
only  business  is  pleasure.  When,  as  sole  reward  for  so 
many  unnoticed  acts  of  devotion,  he  found  only  the  gen- 
tlest of  words  or  prettiest  assurances  of  undying  attach- 
ment, a  warm  pressure  of  the  hand,  if  by  chance  they 
escaped  observation  for  a  moment,  or  one  or  two  passion- 
ate expressions  in  response  to  his  own,  Eaoul  began  to  feel 
that  it  was  mere  Quixotism  not  to  make  known  the  extrav- 
agant price  he  paid  for  these  "modest  favors,"  as  our  fathers 
might  have  called  them. 

The  opportunity  for  an  explanation  was  not  long  of  com- 
ing. On  a  lovely  April  day  the  Countess  took  Nathan's  arm 
in  a  secluded  corner  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  She  had  a 
pretty  little  quarrel  to  pick  with  him  about  one  of  those 
molehills  which  women  have  the  art  of  turning  into  moun- 
tains. There  was  no  smiling  welcome,  no  radiant  brow,  the 
eyes  did  not  sparkle  with  fun  or  happiness;  it  was  a  serious 
and  burdened  woman  who  met  him. 

"What  is  wrong?"  said  Nathan. 

"Oh!  Why  worry  about  trifles?"  she  said.  "Surely  you 
know  how  childish  women  are." 

"Are  you  angry  with  me?" 

"Should  I  be  here?" 

"But  you  don't  smile,  you  don't  seem  a  bit  glad  to  see 
me." 

"I  suppose  you  mean  that  I  am  cross,"  she  said,  with  the 
resigned  air  of  a  woman  determined  to  be  a  martyr. 

Nathan  walked  on  a  few  steps,  an  overshadowing  fear 
gripping  at  his  heart.  After  a  moment's  silence,  he 
went  on: 

"It  can  only  be  one  of  those  idle  fears,  those  vague  sus- 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE 

picions,  to  which  you  give  such  exaggerated  importance.  A 
straw,  a  thread  in  your  hands  is  enough  to  upset  the  balance 
of  the  world!" 

"Satire  next!  .  .  .  Well,  I  expected  it,"  she  said,  hang- 
ing her  head.  • 

"Marie,  my  beloved,  do  you  not  see  that  I  say  this  only 
to  wring  your  secret  from  you?" 

"My  secret  will  remain  a  secret,  even  after  I  have  told 
you." 

"Well,  tell  me  .  .  ." 

"I  am  not  loved,"  she  said,  with  the  stealthy  side-look, 
which  is  a  woman's  instrument  for  probing  the  man  she 
means  to  torture. 

"Not  loved!"  exclaimed  Nathan. 

"No;  you  have  too  many  things  on  your  mind.  What 
am  I  in  the  midst  of  this  whirl  ?  You  are  only  too  glad 
to  forget  me.  Yesterday  I  came  to  the  Bois,  I  waited  for 
you-" 

"But-" 

"I  had  put  on  a  new  dress  for  you,  and  you  did  not  come. 
W  here  were  you  ? ' ' 

"But—" 

"I  couldn't  tell.  I  went  to  Mme.  d'Espard's;  you  were 
not  there." 

"But—" 

"At  the  opera  in  the  evening  my  eyes  never  left  the  bal- 
cony. Every  time  the  door  opened  my  heart  beat  so  that  I 
thought  it  would  break. ' ' 

"But—" 

"What  an  evening  1  You  have  no  conception  of  such 
agony!" 

"But—" 

"It  eats  into  life—" 

"But—" 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  replied  Nathan,  "it  does  eat  into  life,  and  in  a 
few  months  you  will  have  consumed  mine.  Your  wild  re- 


364  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

proaches  have  torn  from  me  my  secret  also.  .  .  .  Ah! 
you  are  not  loved?  My  God,  you  are  loved  too  well." 

He  drew  a  graphic  picture  of  his  straits.  He  told  her 
how  he  sat  up  at  nights,  how  he  had  to  keep  certain  en- 
gagements at  fixed  hours,  and  how,  above  all  things,  he 
was  bound  to  succeed.  He  showed  her  how  insatiable 
were  the  claims  of  a  paper,  compelled,  at  risk  of  losing 
its  reputation,  to  be  beforehand  with  an  accurate  judgment 
on  every  event  that  took  place,  and  how  incessant  was  the 
call  for  a  rapid  survey  of  questions,  which  chased  each 
other  like  clouds  over  the  horizon  in  that  period  of  politi- 
cal convulsions. 

In  a  moment  the  mischief  was  done.  Raoul  had  been 
told  by  the  Marquise  d'Espard  that  nothing  is  so  ingenu- 
ous as  a  first  love,  and  it  soon  appeared  that  the  Countess 
erred  in  loving  too  much.  A  loving  woman  meets  every 
difficulty  with  delight  and  with  fresh  proof  of  her  passion. 
On  seeing  the  panorama  of  this  varied  life  unrolled  before 
her,  the  Countess  was  filled  with  admiration.  She  had  pic- 
tured Nathan  a  great  man,  but  now  he  seemed  transcen- 
dent. She  blamed  herself  for  an  excessive  love,  and  begged 
him  to  come  only  when  he  was  at  liberty;  Nathan's  ambi- 
tious struggles  sank  to  nothing  before  the  glance  she  cast 
toward  Heaven!  She  would  wait!  Henceforth  her  pleas- 
ure should  be  sacrificed.  She,  who  had  wished  to  be  a 
stepping-stone,  had  proved  only  an  obstacle.  .  .  .  She 
wept  despairingly. 

"Women,  it  seems,"  she  said  with  tearful  eyes,  "are 
fit  only  to  love.  Men  have  a  thousand  different  ways  of 
spending  their  energy;  all  we  can  do  is  to  dream,  and 
pray,  and  worship." 

So  much  love  deserved  a  recompense.  Peeping  round, 
like  a  nightingale  ready  to  alight  from  its  branch  beside  a 
spring  of  water,  she  tried  to  make  sure  whether  they  were 
alone  in  this  solitude,  and  whether  no  spectator  lurked  in 
the  silence.  Then  raising  her  head  to  Raoul,  who  bent  his 
to  meet  her,  she  allowed  him  a  kiss,  the  first,  the  only,  con- 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  365 

traband  kiss  she  was  destined  to  give.  At  that  instant  she 
was  happier  than  she  had  been  for  five  years,  while  Raoul 
felt  himself  repaid  for  all  that  he  had  gone  through. 

They  had  to  return  to  their  carriages,  and  walked  on, 
hardly  knowing  whither,  along  the  road  from  Auteuil  to 
Boulogne,  moving  with  the  even  rhythmic  step  familiar 
to  lovers.  Confidence  came  to  Raoul  in  that  kiss,  ten- 
dered with  the  modest  frankness  that  is  the  outcome  of  a 
pure  mind.  All  the  evil  came  from  society,  not  from  this 
woman,  who  was  so  absolutely  his.  The  hardships  of  his 
frenzied  existence  were  nothing  now  to  him;  and  Marie,  in 
the  ardor  of  her  first  passion,  was  bound,  womanlike,  r-oon 
to  forget  them,  since  she  could  not  witness  from  hour  to 
hour  the  terrible  throes  of  a  life  too  exceptional  to  be 
easily  imagined. 

Marie,  penetrated  by  the  grateful  veneration  character- 
istic of  a  woman's  love,  hastened  with  resolute  and  active 
tread  along  the  sand-strewn  alley.  Like  Raoul,  she  spoke 
but  little,  but  that  little  came  from  the  heart,  and  was  full 
of  meaning.  The  sky  was  clear;  buds  were  forming  on  the 
larger  trees,  where  already  spots  of  green  enlivened  the  deli- 
cate brown  tracery;  while  the  shrubs,  birches,  willows,  and 
poplars  showed  their  first  tender  and  still  unsubstantial  foli- 
age. What  heart  can  resist  the  harmony  of  such  a  scene  ? 
Love  was  now  interpreting  nature  to  the  Countess,  as  it  had 
already  interpreted  the  ways  of  men. 

"If  only  I  were  your  first  love!"  she  breathed. 

"You  are,"  replied  Raoul.  "We  have  each  been  the  first 
to  reveal  true  love  to  the  other. ' ' 

Nor  did  he  speak  falsely.  In  posing  before  this  fresh 
young  heart  as  a  man  of  pure  life,  he  became  affected  by 
the  noble  sentiments  with  which  he  embroidered  his  talk. 
His  passion,  at  first  a  matter  of  policy  and  ambition,  had 
become  sincere.  Starting  from  falsehood,  he  had  arrived 
at  truth.  Add  to  this  that  all  authors  have  a  natural  in- 
stinct, repressed  only  with  effort,  to  admire  moral  beauty. 
Lastly,  a  man  has  but  to  make  enough  sacrifices  in  order 


366  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

to  become  attached  to  the  person  demanding  them.  "Women 
of  the  world  know  this  intuitively,  just  as  courtesans  do, 
and  it  may  even  be  that  they  unconsciously  act  upon  the 
knowledge. 

The  Countess,  after  her  first  burst  of  surprised  gratitude, 
was  delighted  to  have  inspired  so  much  devotion  and  been 
the  cause  of  such  astounding  feats.  The  man  who  loved 
her  was  worthy  of  her.  Raoul  had  not  the  least  idea  to 
what  this  playing  at  greatness  would  commit  him.  He 
forgot  that  no  woman  will  allow  her  lover  to  fall  below 
her  ideal  of  him,  and  that  nothing  paltry  can  be  suffered 
in  a  god.  Marie  had  never  heard  that  solution  of  the 
problem  which  Raoul  had  disclosed  to  his  friends  in 
the  course  of  the  supper  at  Ve'ry's.  His  struggles  as  a 
man  of  letters,  forcing  his  way  upward  from  the  masses, 
had  filled  the  first  ten  years  of  early  manhood;  now  he 
was  resolved  to  be  loved  by  one  of  the  queens  of  the  fash- 
ionable world.  Vanity,  without  which,  as  Chamfort  said, 
love  has  no  backbone,  sustained  his  passion,  and  could  not 
fail  to  augment  it  day  by  day. 

"Can  you  swear  to  me,"  said  Marie,  "that  you  are  noth- 
ing, and  never  will  be  anything,  to  another  woman  ?" 

"My  life  has  no  space  for  another,  even  were  my  heart 
free,1'  was  his  reply,  made  in  all  sincerity,  so  completely 
had  Florine  dropped  out  of  sight. 

And  she  believed  him. 

When  they  reached  the  road  where  the  carriages  were 
waiting,  Marie  let  go  the  arm  of  Nathan,  who  at  once  as- 
sumed a  respectful  attitude,  as  though  this  were  a  chance 
meeting.  He  walked  with  her,  hat  in  hand,  as  far  as  the 
carriage,  and  then  followed  it  down  the  avenue  Charles 
X.,  inhaling  the  dust  it  raised,  and  watching  the  drooping 
feathers  swaying  in  the  wind. 

In  spite  of  Marie's  generous  resolutions  of  sacrifice, 
Raoul,  spurred  on  by  passion,  continued  to  appear  where- 
ever  she  went;  he  adored  the  half -vexed,  half -smiling  air 
with  which  she  vainly  tried  to  scold  him  for  wasting  the 


A    DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  367 

time  he  could  so  badly  spare.  Marie  began  to  take  Raoul's 
work  in  hand,  laid  down  what  he  was  to  do  every  hour  in 
the  day,  and  remained  at  home  herself,  so  as  to  leave  him 
no  excuse  for  taking  a  holiday.  She  read  his  paper  every 
morning,  and  she  trumpeted  the  praises  of  Etienne  Lousteau 
the  feuilletonist,  whom  she  thought  charming,  of  Felicien 
Vernou,  Claude  Yignon,  and  all  the  staff.  It  was  she  who 
advised  Raoul  to  deal  generously  with  de  Marsay  when  he 
died,  and  she  read  with  dizzy  pride  the  fine  dignified  tribute 
which  he  paid  the  late  minister,  while  deploring  his  Machi- 
avelianism  and  hatred  of  the  masses.  She  was  of  course 
present  in  a  stage  box  at  the  Gymnase  on  the  first  night  of 
the  play,  to  which  Raoul  was  trusting  for  the  funds  of  his 
undertaking,  and  which  seemed  to  her,  deceived  by  the  hired 
applause,  an  immense  success. 

"You  did  not  come  to  say  farewell  to  the  opera?"  asked 
Lady  Dudley,  to  whose  house  she  went  after  the  performance. 

"No;  I  was  at  the  Gymnase.     It  was  a  first  night." 

"I  can't  bear  vaudeville.  I  feel  to  it  as  Louis  XIV.  did 
to  a  Teniers,"  said  Lady  Dudley. 

"For  my  part,"  remarked  Mme.  d'Espard,  "I  think  they 
have  improved  very  much.  Vaudevilles  now  are  charming 
comedies,  full  of  wit,  and  the  work  of  very  clever  men.  I 
enjoy  them  immensely." 

"The  acting  is  so  good  too,"  said  Marie.  "The  play  to- 
night at  the  Gymnase  went  capitally;  it  seemed  to  suit  the 
actors,  and  the  dialogue  is  spirited  and  amusing." 

"A  regular  Beaumarchais  business,"  said  Lady  Dudley. 

"M.  Nathan  is  not  a  Moliere  yet,  but — "  said  Mme.  d'Es- 
pard, with  a  look  at  the  Countess. 

"But  he  makes  vaudevilles,"  said  Mme.  Charles  de  Van- 
denesse. 

"And  unmakes  ministers,"  retorted  Mme.  de  Manerville. 

The  Countess  remained  silent;  she  racked  her  brains  for 
pungent  epigrams;  her  heart  burned  with  rage,  but  nothing 
better  occurred  to  her  than :  ' '  Some  day  perhaps  he  will  make 
one." 


368  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

All  the  women  exchanged  glances  of  mysterious  under- 
standing. When  Mme.  de  Vandenesse  had  gone,  Moina  de 
Saint-He'ren  exclaimed:  "Why,  she  adores  Nathan!" 

"She  makes  no  mystery  of  it,"  said  Mme.  d'Espard. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SUICIDE 

THE  MONTH of  May,  Vandenesse  took  his 
wife  away  to  their  country  seat.  Here  her  only 
comfort  was  in  passionate  letters  from  Raoul,  to 
whom  she  wrote  every  day. 

The  absence  of  the  Countess  might  possibly  have  saved 
Raoul  from  the  abyss  over  which  he  hung  had  Florine  been 
with  him.  But  he  was  alone  among  friends,  secretly  turned 
to  enemies  ever  since  his  determination  to  take  the  whip-hand 
became  plain.  For  the  moment  he  was  an  object  of  hatred 
to  his  staff,  who  reserved,  however,  the  right  of  holding 
out  a  consoling  hand  in  case  he  failed,  or  of  cringing  to 
him  should  he  succeed.  This  is  the  way  in  the  literary 
world,  where  people  are  friendly  only  to  their  inferiors,  and 
the  rising  man  has  everybody  against  him.  This  universal 
jealousy  increases  tenfold  the  chance  of  mediocrities,  who 
arouse  neither  envy  nor  suspicion.  Like  moles,  they  work 
their  way  underground,  and,  with  all  their  incompetence, 
find  more  than  one  snug  corner  in  the  official  lists,  while 
really  able  men  are  struggling  and  blocking  each  other  at 
the  door  of  promotion.  Florine,  with  the  inborn  gift  of 
such  women  for  putting  their  finger  on  the  real  thing 
among  a  thousand  presentments  of  it,  would  at  once  have 
detected  the  underhand  animosity  of  these  false  friends. 

But  this  was  not  Raoul's  greatest  danger.  His  two  part- 
ners, the  barrister  Massol  and  the  banker  du  Tillet,  had  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  harnessing  his  energy  to  the  car  in  which 


A    DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  369 

they  should  loll  at  ease,  with  the  full  intention  of  turning 
him  adrift  as  soon  as  his  resources  failed  to  keep  the  paper 
going,  or  of  wresting  it  from  his  hands  the  moment  they  saw 
their  way  to  using  this  powerful  instrument  for  their  own 
purposes.  To  their  minds,  Nathan  represented  so  much 
capital  to  run  through,  a  literary  force,  equal  to  that  of 
ten  ordinary  writers,  'to  exploit. 

Massol  belonged  to  the  type  of  barrister  who  takes  a  flux 
of  words  for  eloquence  and  can  weary  any  audience  by  his 
prolixity,  who  in  every  gathering  of  men  acts  as  a  blight, 
shrivelling  up  their  enthusiasm,  yet  who  is  determined  at 
all  costs  to  be  a  somebody.  Massol 's  ambition,  however, 
no  longer  pointed  to  the  ministry  of  justice.  Within  four 
years  he  had  seen  five  or  six  men  clothed  with  the  robes  of 
office,  and  this  had  cured  him  of  the  fancy.  Meanwhile  he 
was  ready  to  accept,  as  something  in  hand,  a  professorship 
or  a  post  under  the  Council,  with  of  course  the  Cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor  to  season  the  dish.  Du  Tillet  and  the 
Baron  de  Nucingen  had  guaranteed  him  the  Cross  and 
the  desired  post  if  he  fell  in  with  their  views;  and  as 
he  judged  them  to  be  in  a  better  position  than  Nathan  for 
fulfilling  their  promises,  he  followed  them  blindly. 

The  better  to  hoodwink  Kaoul,  these  men  allowed  him 
to  exercise  uncontrolled  power.  Du  Tillet  only  made  use 
of  the  paper  for  his  stock-jobbing  interests,  which  were  out- 
side Raoul's  ken.  He  had,  however,  already  given  Kasti- 
gnac  to  understand,  through  the  Baron  de  Nucingen,  that  this 
organ  was  ready  to  give  a  silent  adhesion  to  the  Government, 
on  the  one  condition  that  the  Government  should  support  du 
Tillet's  candidature  as  successor  to  M.  de  Nucingen,  who 
would  be  a  peer  some  day,  and  who  at  present  sat  for  a 
rotten  borough,  where  the  paper  was  lavishly  circulated, 
gratis.  Thus  was  Eaoul  jockeyed  by  both  the  banker  and 
the  barrister,  who  took  a  huge  delight  in  seeing  him  lord  it 
at  the  office,  pocketing  all  the  gains,  as  well  as  the  less  sub- 
stantial dues  of  vanity  and  the  like.  Nathan  could  not  praise 
them  enough;  again,  as  when  they  furnished  his  stables,  they 


370  BALZACTS    WORKS 

were  "the  best  fellows  in  the  world, ' '  and  he  actually  believed 
that  he  was  duping  them. 

Men  of  imagination,  whose  whole  life  is  based  on  hope, 
never  will  admit  that  in  business  the  moment  of  danger  is 
that  when  everything  goes  to  a  wish.  Such  a  moment  of 
triumph  had  come  for  Nathan,  and  he  made  full  use  of  it, 
letting  himself  be  seen  both  in  political  and  financial  circles. 
Du  Tillet  introduced  him  to  the  Nucingens,  and  he  was  re- 
ceived in  a  most  friendly  way  by  Mine,  de  Nucingen,  not  so 
much  for  his  own  sake  as  for  that  of  Mme.  de  Vandenesse. 
Yet,  when  she  alluded  to  the  Countess,  Nathan  thought  him- 
self a  marvel  of  discretion  for  taking  refuge  behind  Florine, 
and  he  enlarged  with  generous  self-complacency  on  his  re- 
lations with  the  actress,  which  nothing,  he  declared,  could 
break.  How  could  any  man  abandon  an  assured  happiness 
for  the  coquetry  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  ? 

Nathan,  beguiled  by  Nucingen  and  Rastignac,  du  Tillet 
and  Blondet,  lent  an  ostentatious  support  to  the  doctrinaire 
party  in  the  formation  of  one  of  their  ephemeral  cabinets. 
At  the  same  time,  wishing  to  start  in  public  life  with  clean 
hands,  he  refused,  with  much  parade,  to  accept  any  share  in 
the  profits  of  certain  enterprises  which  had  been  launched 
by  the  help  of  this  paper.  And  this  was  the  man  who  never 
hesitated  to  compromise  a  friend,  or  was  hampered  by  a 
scruple  in  his  relations  with  a  certain  class  of  business  men 
at  critical  moments!  Such  startling  contrasts,  born  of  van- 
ity and  ambition,  may  often  be  found  in  careers  like  his. 
The  mantle  must  make  a  brave  show  to  the  public,  but 
scraps  raised  from  a  friend  will  serve  to  patch  it. 

But  in  the  very  midst  of  all  his  successes.  Nathan  was 
roused  to  some  uneasiness  by  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  which 
he  spent  over  his  business  accounts  two  months  after  the  de- 
parture of  the  Countess.  Du  Tillet  had  advanced  a  hundred 
thousand  francs.  The  money  given  by  Florine,  the  third 
part  of  his  original  capital,  had  gone  in  government  clues 
and  in  the  expenses  of  starting  the  paper,  which  were  enor- 
mous. The  future  had  to  be  provided  for.  The  banker 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  371 

assisted  Mm  by  accepting  bills  for  fifty  thousand  francs  at 
four  months,  and  thereby  fastened  a  halter  round  the  au- 
thor's neck.  Thanks  to  this  subvention,  the  paper  was  in 
funds  again  for  six  months.  In  the  eyes  of  many  lit- 
erary men  six  months  is  an  eternity.  Further,  by  dint  of 
puffs  and  by  sending  round  canvassers,  who  offered  illusory 
advantages  to  subscribers,  they  managed  to  raise  the  circula- 
tion by  two  thousand.  This  semi-triumph  was  an  incentive 
to  cast  his  latest  borrowings  into  the  melting-pot.  One  more 
effort  of  his  wits,  and  a  political  lawsuit  or  a  sham  persecu- 
tion might  give  Eaoul  a  place  among  those  modern  Condot- 
tieri,  whose  ink  has  to-day  taken  the  place  of  gunpowder. 

Unfortunately,  these  steps  were  already  taken  when  Flo- 
rine  returned  with  about  fifty  thousand  francs.  Instead  of 
setting  this  aside  as  a  reserve,  Raoul,  confident  of  a  success 
which  was  his  only  safety,  humiliated  at  the  thought  of  hav- 
ing once  before  accepted  money  from  the  actress,  feeling  that 
his  love  had  raised  him  to  a  higher  plane,  and  dazzled  by  the 
specious  plaudits  of  his  flatterers,  deceived  Florine  as  to  his 
situation,  and  obliged  her  to  spend  the  money  in  setting  up 
house  again.  Under  present  circumstances,  a  smart  and  dash- 
ing style  was,  he  assured  her,  essential.  The  actress,  who 
needed  no  spurring,  got  into  debt  for  thirty  thousand  francs. 
Instead  of  a  flat,  Florine  took  a  charming  house  in  the  Rue 
Pigalle,  where  her  old  friends  came  about  her  again.  The 
house  of  a  woman  in  Florine's  position  supplied  a  neutral 
ground,  most  convenient  for  pushing  politicians,  who,  follow- 
ing the  example  of  Louis  XIY .  with  the  Dutch,  entertained 
at  Raoul 's  house  in  Raoul' s  absence. 

Nathan  had  reserved  for  the  return  of  the  actress  a  play, 
the  chief  part  in  which  suited  her  admirably.  This  vaude- 
ville-drama was  intended  as  Raoul's  farewell  to  the  theatre. 
The  newspapers,  by  an  attention  to  Raoul  which  cost  them 
nothing,  planned  beforehand  such  an  ovation  to  Florine  that 
the  Come'die-Franc.aise  began  to  speak  of  engaging  her:  critics 
pointed  to  her  as  the  direct  successor  of  Mile.  Mars.  This  tri- 
umph threw  the  actress  so  far  off  her  balance  as  to  prevent  her 


372  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

examining  carefully  the  state  of  Nathan's  affairs;  her  life  was 
a  whirl  of  banquets  and  revelry.  Queen  in  a  bevy  of  bustling 
suitors,  each  with  something  to  push — a  book,  a  play,  a  ballet- 
girl,  a  theatre,  a  company,  or  an  advertisement — she  revelled 
in  the  delights  of  this  press  influence,  which  she  pictured  as 
the  dawn  of  ministerial  patronage.  In  the  mouths  of  those 
who  frequented  her  house,  Nathan  was  a  politician  of  high 
standing.  His  scheme  would  succeed,  he  would  be  elected 
to  the  Chamber,  and  beyond  doubt  have  a  turn  at  office,  like 
so  many  others.  Actresses  are  rarely  slow  to  believe  what 
flatters  their  hopes.  How  could  Florine,  lauded  in  the  no- 
tices, mistrust  the  paper  or  its  contributors  ?  She  was  too 
ignorant  of  the  mechanism  of  the  press  to  be  uneasy  about 
its  resources,  and  women  of  her  stamp  look  only  to  results. 

As  for  Nathan,  he  no  longer  doubted  that  in  the  course 
of  the  next  session  he  would  come  to  the  front,  along  with 
two  former  journalists,  one  of  whom,  already  in  office,  was 
anxious  to  strengthen  his  position  by  turning  out  his  col- 
leagues. After  six  months  of  absence,  Nathan  was  glad  to 
see  Florine  again,  and  lazily  fell  back  into  his  old  habits. 
The  coarse  web  of  his  life  was  covertly  embroidered  by  him 
with  the  loveliest  flowers  of  his  ideal  passion  and  with  the 
pleasures  scattered  by  Florine.  His  letters  to  Marie  were 
masterpieces  of  love,  elegance,  and  style.  He  made  of  her 
the  guiding  star  of  his  life;  he  undertook  nothing  without 
consulting  his  good  genius.  Miserable  at  being  on  the  popu- 
lar side,  he  was  tempted  at  times  to  join  the  aristocrats;  but, 
with  all  his  skill  in  turning  his  back  on  himself,  it  seemed 
impossible  to  make  the  leap  from  left  to  right;  it  was  easier 
to  get  office. 

Marie's  precious  letters  were  kept  in  a  portfolio  with  secret 
springs,  an  invention  either  of  Huret  or  Fichet,  the  two 
mechanists  who  carry  on  a  war  of  emulation  in  the  newspaper 
columns  and  on  the  walls  of  Paris  as  to  the  comparative  effi- 
cacy and  unobtrusiveness  of  their  locks.  The  portfolio  lay 
in  Florine's  new  boudoir,  where  Eaoul  worked.  No  one  is 
more  easily  deceived  than  the  woman  who  is  used  to  frank- 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  373 

ness;  she  has  no  suspicions,  because  she  believes  herself  to 
know  and  see  all  that  goes  on.  Moreover,  since  her  return 
the  actress  took  her  part  in  Nathan's  daily  life,  which  ap- 
peared to  go  on  just  as  usual.  It  never  would  have  occurred 
to  her  that  this  writing-case,  which  she  had  barely  noticed, 
and  which  Eaoul  made  no  mystery  about  locking,  contained 
love  tokens  in  the  shape  of  a  rival's  letters,  addressed,  at 
Kaoul's  request,  to  the  office.  To  all  appearance,  therefore, 
Nathan's  situation  was  of  the  brightest.  He  had  plenty  of 
nominal  friends.  Two  plays,  at  which  he  had  worked  jointly 
with  others,  and  which  had  just  made  a  success,  kept  him  in 
luxuries  and  removed  all  anxiety  for  the  future.  Indeed, 
his  debt  to  his  friend  du  Tillet  never  gave  him  a  moment's 
uneasiness. 

"How  can  one  suspect  a  friend?"  he  said,  when  now  and 
again  Blondet  would  give  utterance  to  doubts,  which  were 
natural  to  his  analytic  turn  of  mind. 

"But  we  have  no  need  to  fear  our  enemies,"  said  Florine. 

Nathan  stood  up  for  du  Tillet.  Du  Tillet  was  the  best, 
most  good-natured,  and  most  honorable  of  men. 

This  life  upon  the  tight-rope,  without  even  a  steadying 
pole,  which  might  have  appalled  a  mere  onlooker  who  had 
grasped  its  meaning,  was  watched  by  du  Tillet  with  the  stoi- 
cism and  hard-heartedness  of  a  parvenu.  At  times  a  fierce 
irony  broke  through  the  genial  cordiality  of  his  manner  with 
Nathan.  One  day  he  pressed  his  hand  as  he  was  leaving 
Florin e's,  and  watched  him  get  into  his  cabriolet. 

"There  goes  our  dandy  off  to  the  Bois  in  tiptop  style," 
he  said  to  Lousteau,  the  very  incarnation  of  envy,  "and  in 
six  months  he  may  be  laid  by  the  heels  in  Clichy." 

"Not  he!"  exclaimed  Lousteau;  "think  of  Florine." 

"And  how  do  you  know,  my  good  fellow,  that  he'll  keep 
Florine?  I  tell  you,  you're  worth  a  thousand  of  him,  and 
I  expect  six  months  will  see  you  in  the  editorial  chair." 

In  October  the  bills  fell  due,  and  du  Tillet  graciously 
renewed  them,  but  this  time  for  two  months  only,  and  the 
amount  was  increased  by  the  discount  and  by  a  new  loan. 


374  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Confident  of  victory,  .Raoul  drained  his  till.  An  overmas- 
tering desire  to  see  him  was  bringing  the  Countess  back  to 
town  a  month  earlier  than  usual — within  a  few  days  in  fact 
— and  it  would  not  do  to  be  crippled  for  lack  of  funds  when 
the  moment  had  come  for  entering  the  field  again. 

The  pen  is  always  bolder  than  the  tongue,  and  the  letters 
she  received  had  raised  the  Comtesse  de  Vandenesse  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  excitement.  Thoughts  clothed  in  the  flow- 
ers of  rhetoric  can  express  so  much  without  meeting  a  repulse. 
She  saw  in  Raoul  one  of  the  finest  intellects  of  the  day,  a 
delicately-strung  and  unappreciated  heart,  which  in  its  un- 
stained purity  was  worthy  of  adoration.  She  watched  him 
put  forth  a  bold  hand  upon  the  citadel  of  power.  Ere  long 
that  voice,  so  tuneful  in  love,  would  thunder  from  the  trib- 
une. Marie  was  now  entirely  absorbed  in  that  life  of  inter- 
secting circles,  which  resemble  the  orbits  of  the  planets,  and 
revolve  round  the  sun  of  society  as  their  centre.  Finding 
no  flavor  in  the  calm  pleasures  of  home,  she  received  the 
shock  of  every  agitation  in  this  whirling  life,  brought  home 
to  her  by  the  pen  of  a  literary  artist  and  a  lover.  She  show- 
ered kisses  on  letters  which  had  been  written  in  the  thick  of 
press  combats,  or  purloined  from  hours  of  study.  She  real- 
ized now  what  they  had  cost  and  was  well  assured  of  being 
his  only  love,  with  no  rivals  but  glory  and  ambition.  Even 
in  the  depths  of  her  solitude  she  found  occupation  for  all  her 
powers  and  could  dwell  with  satisfaction  upon  the  choice  of 
her  heart.  There  was  no  one  like  Nathan. 

Fortunately,  her  withdrawal  into  the  country  and  the 
barriers  thus  placed  between  her  and  Raoul  had  silenced  ill- 
natured  gossip.  During  the  last  days  of  autumn,  therefore, 
Marie  and  Raoul  were  able  once  more  to  begin  their  walks 
in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  their  only  meeting-place  until  the 
season  opened.  Raoul  had  now  a  little  more  leisure  to  enjoy 
the  exquisite  delights  of  his  ideal  life,  anal  also  to  practice 
concealment  with  Florine;  his  work  at  the  office  had  ceased 
to  be  so  hard  since  things  were  well  in  train  there  and  each 
member  of  the  staff  understood  his  duty.  Involuntarily  he 


made  comparisons  which,  though  always  favorable  to  Flo- 
rine,  did  the  Countess  no  injury.  Exhausted  once  more  by 
the  various  shifts  to  which  his  passion,  alike  of  the  head  and 
of  the  heart,  for  a  woman  of  fashion  impelled  him,  Raoul  put 
forth  superhuman  energy  in  the  effort  to  appear  simultane- 
ously on  three  different  stages — society,  the  office,  and  the 
greenroom.  While  Florine,  always  grateful  and  taking 
almost  a  partner's  share  in  his  work  and  difficulties,  appeared 
and  vanished  as  required,  and  showered  on  him  a  wealth  of 
substantial  and  unpretentious  happiness,  which  called  forth 
no  remorse,  the  unapproachable  Countess,  with  her  hungry 
eyes,  had  already  forgotten  his  stupendous  labors  and  the 
trouble  it  often  cost  him  to  get  a  passing  glimpse  of  her. 
Florine,  far  from  trying  to  impose  her  will,  would  let  herself 
be  taken  up  and  put  down  with  the  good-natured  indifference 
of  a  cat,  which  always  falls  on  its  feet  and  walks  off,  shaking 
its  ears.  This  easy  way  of  life  is  admirably  fitted  to  the 
habits  of  brain-workers;  and  it  is  only  in  the  artist's  nature 
to  take  full  advantage  of  it,  as  Nathan  did,  while  not  aban- 
doning the  pursuit  of  that  fine  ideal  love,  that  splendid  pas- 
sion, which  delighted  at  once  his  poetic  instincts,  the  germ 
of  greatness  in  him,  and  his  social  ambitions.  Fully  aware 
how  disastrous  would  be  the  effect  of  any  indiscretion,  he 
told  himself  it  was  impossible  that  either  the  Countess  or 
Florine  should  find  out  anything.  The  chasm  between  them 
was  too  great. 

With  the  beginning  of  winter  Kaoul  once  more  made  his 
appearance  in  society,  and  this  time  in  the  heyday  of  his 
glory:  he  was  all  but  a  personage.  Rastignac,  who  had 
fallen  with  the  Government  which  went  to  pieces  on  de 
Marsay's  death,  leaned  upon  Raoul,  and  in  return  gave  him 
the  support  of  his  good  word.  Mme.  de  Vandenesse  was 
curious  to  know  whether  her  husband  had  changed  his  opin- 
ion of  Eaoul.  After  the  lapse  of  a  year  she  questioned  him 
again,  in  the  expectation  of  a  signal  revenge,  such  as  the 
noblest  and  least  earthly  of  women  do  not  disdain;  for 
we  may  be  sure  that  the  angels  in  heaven  have  not  lost 


876  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

all   thought  of  self   as   they   range   themselves   round    the 
throne. 

"That  he  should  become  the  tool  of  unscrupulous  men 
was  the  one  thing  lacking  to  him, ' '  replied  the  Count. 

Felix,  with  the  keen  insight  of  a  politician  and  a  man 
of  the  world,  had  thoroughly  gauged  Raoul's  position.  He 
calmly  explained  to  his  wife  how  the  attempt  of  Fieschi  had 
resulted  in  rallying  many  lukewarm  people  round  the  inter- 
ests threatened  in  the  person  of  Louis-Philippe.  The  com- 
paratively neutral  papers  would  go  down  in  circulation  as 
journalism,  along  with  politics,  fell  into  more  definite  lines. 
If  Nathan  had  put  his  capital  into  his  paper,  he  would  soon 
be  done  for.  This  summary  of  the  situation,  so  clear  and 
accurate  in  spite  of  its  brevity  and  the  purely  abstract  point 
of  view  from  which  it  was  made,  and  coming  from  a  man 
well  used  to  calculate  the  chances  of  party,  frightened  Mme. 
de  Vandenesse. 

"Do  you  take  much  interest  in  him  then?"  asked  Felix 
of  his  wife. 

"Oh!  I  like  his  humor,  and  he  talks  well." 

The  reply  came  so  naturally  that  it  did  not  rouse  the 
Count's  suspicions. 

At  four  o'clock  next  day  at  Mme.  d'Espard's,  Marie  and 
Raoul  held  a  long  whispered  conversation.  The  Countess 
gave  expression  to  fears  which  Raoul  dissipated,  only  too 
glad  of  this  opportunity  to  damage  the  husband's  authority 
under  a  battery  of  epigrams.  He  had  his  revenge  to  take. 
The  Count,  thus  handled,  appeared  a  man  of  narrow  mind 
and  behind  the  day,  who  judged  the  Revolution  of  July  by 
the  standard  of  the  Restoration,  and  shut  his  eyes  to  the 
triumph  of  the  middle-class,  that  new  and  substantial  factor 
to  be  reckoned  with,  for  a  time  at  least  if  not  permanently, 
in  every  society.  The  great  feudal  lords  of  the  past  were 
impossible  now,  the  reign  of  true  merit  had  begun.  Instead 
of  weighing  well  the  indirect  and  impartial  warning  he  had 
received  from  an  experienced  politician  in  the  expression  of 
his  deliberate  opinion,  Raoul  made  it  an  occasion  for  display, 


A    DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  377 

mounted  his  stilts,  and  draped  himself  in  the  purple  of  suc- 
cess. Where  is  the  woman  who  would  not  believe  her  lover 
rather  than  her  husband  ? 

Mme.  de  Vandenesse,  reassured,  plunged  once  more  into 
that  life  of  repressed  irritation,  of  little  stolen  pleasures,  and 
of  covert  hand-pressings  which  had  carried  her  through  the 
preceding  winter;  but  which  can  have  no  other  end  than  to 
drag  a  woman  over  the  boundary  line  if  the  man  she  loves 
has  any  spirit  and  chafes  against  the  curb.  Happily  for  her, 
Eaoul,  kept  in  check  by  Florine,  was  not  dangerous.  He 
was  engrossed,  too,  in  business  which  did  not  allow  him  to 
turn  his  good  fortune  to  account.  Nevertheless,  some  sud- 
den disaster,  a  renewal  of  difficulties,  an  outburst  of  impa- 
tience, might  at  any  moment  precipitate  the  Countess  into 
the  abyss. 

Eaoul  was  becoming  conscious  of  this  disposition  in  Marie 
when,  toward  the  end  of  December,  du  Tillet  asked  for  his 
money.  The  wealthy  banker  told  Raoul  he  was  hard  up, 
and  advised  him  to  borrow  the  amount  for  a  fortnight  from 
a  money-lender  called  OHgonnet — a  twenty-five  per  cent 
Providence  for  all  young  men  in  difficulties.  In  a  few  days 
the  paper  would  make  a  fresh  financial  start  with  the  new 
•year,  there  would  be  cash  in  the  counting-house,  and  then 
du  Tillet  would  see  what  he  could  do.  Besides,  why  should 
not  Nathan  write  another  play?  Nathan  was  too  proud  not 
to  resolve  on  paying  at  any  cost.  Du  Tillet  gave  him  a  letter 
for  the  money-lender,  in  response  to  which  Grigonnet  handed 
him  the  amount  required  and  took  bills  payable  in  twenty 
days.  Eaoul,  instead  of  having  his  suspicions  roused  by  this 
accommodating  reception,  was  only  vexed  that  he  had  not 
asked  for  more.  This  is  the  way  with  men  of  the  greatest 
intellectual  power;  they  see  only  matter  for  pleasantry  in  a 
grave  predicament,  and  reserve  their  wits  for  writing  books, 
as  though  afraid  there  might  not  be  enough  of  them  to  go 
round  if  applied  to  daily  life.  Eaoul  told  Florine  and  Blon- 
det  how  he  had  spent  his  morning;  he  drew  a  faithful  picture 
of  Gigonnet  and  his  surroundings,  his  cheap  fleur-de-lis  wall- 


378  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

paper,  his  staircase,  his  asthmatic  bell,  his  stag's-foot  knocker; 
his  worn  little  door  mat,  his  hearth  as  devoid  of  fire  as  his 
eye;  he  made  them  laugh  at  this  new  "uncle,"  and  neither 
du  Tillet's  professed  need  of  money  nor  the  facility  of  the 
usurer  caused  them  the  least  uneasiness. — One  can't  account 
for  every  whim! 

"He  has  only  taken  fifteen  per  cent  from  you,"  said 
Blondet;  "he  deserves  your  thanks.  At  twenty-five  they 
cease  to  be  gentlemen;  at  fifty,  usury  begins;  at  this  figure 
they  are  only  contemptible!" 

"Contemptible!"  cried  Florine.  "I  should  like  to  know 
which  of  your  friends  would  loan  you  money  at  this  rate 
without  posing  as  a  benefactor?" 

"She  is  quite  right;  I  am  heartily  glad  to  be  quit  of  du 
Tillet's  debt,"  said  Raoul. 

Most  mysterious  is  this  lack  of  penetration  in  regard  to 
their  private  affairs  on  the  part  of  men  generally  so  keen- 
sighted!  It  may  be  that  it  is  impossible  for  the  mind  to  be 
fully  equipped  on  every  side;  it  may  be  that  artists  live  too 
entirely  in  the  present  to  trouble  about  the  future;  or  it  may 
be  that,  always  on  the  lookout  for  the  ridiculous,  they  are 
blind  to  traps,  and  cannot  believe  in  any  one  daring  to  fool 
them. 

The  end  did  not  tarry.  Twenty  days  later  the  bills  were 
protested;  but  in  the  court  Florine  had  a  respite  of  twenty- 
five  days  applied  for  and  granted.  Raoul  made  an  effort  to 
see  where  he  stood;  he  sent  for  the  books;  and  from  these 
it  appeared  that  the  receipts  of  the  paper  covered  two-thirds 
of  the  cost,  and  that  the  circulation  was  going  down.  The 
great  man  became  uneasy  and  gloomy,  but  only  in  the  com- 
pany of  Florine,  in  whom  he  confided.  Florine  advised  him 
to  borrow  on  the  security  of  plays  not  yet  written,  selling 
them  in  a  lump,  and  parting  at  the  same  time  with  the  royal- 
ties on  his  acted  plays.  By  this  means  Nathan  raised  twenty 
thousand  francs,  and  reduced  his  debt  to  forty  thousand. 

On  the  10th  of  February  the  twenty-five  days  expired. 
Du  Tillet,  determined  to  oust  Nathan,  as  a  rival,  from  the 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  379 

constituency,  where  he  intended  to  stand  himself  (leaving 
to  Massol  another  which  was  in  the  pocket  of  the  Grovern- 
ment),  got  Gigonnet  to  refuse  Raoul  all  quarter.  A  man 
laid  by  the  heels  for  debt  can  hardly  present  himself  as  a 
candidate.;  and  the  embryo  minister  might  disappear  in  the 
maw  of  a  debtor's  prison.  Florine  herself  was  in  constant 
communication  with  the  bailiffs  on  account  of  her  own  debts, 
and  in  this  crisis  the  only  resource  left  to  her  was  the  "I!" 
of  Medea,  for  her  furniture  was  seized.  The  aspirant  to 
fame  heard  on  every  side  the  crack  of  ruin  in  his  freshly 
reared  but  baseless  fabric.  Unequal  to  the  task  of  sustain- 
ing so  vast  an  enterprise,  how  could  he  think  of  beginning 
again  to  lay  the  foundations?  Nothing  remained,  therefore, 
but  to  perish  beneath  his  crumbling  visions.  His  love  for 
the  Countess  still  brought  flashes  of  life,  but  only  to  the 
outer  mask;  within,  all  hope  was  dead.  He  did  not  suspect 
du  Tillet;  the  usurer  alone  filled  his  view.  Rastignac,  Blon- 
det,  Lousteau,  Vernou,  Finot,  Massol,  carefully  refrained 
from  enlightening  a  man  of  such  dangerous  energy.  Ras- 
tignac, who  aimed  at  getting  back  to  power,  made  common 
cause  with  N  ucingen  and  du  Tillet.  The  rest  found  meas- 
ureless delight  in  watching  the  expiring  agony  of  one  of 
their  comrades,  convicted  of  the  crime  of  aiming  at  mastery. 
Not  one  of  them  would  breathe  a  word  to  Florine ;  to  her, 
on  the  contrary,  they  were  full  of  Raoul 's  praises.  "Na- 
than's shoulders  were  broad  enough  to  bear  the  world;  he 
would  come  out  all  right,  no  fear!" 

"The  circulation  went  up  two  yesterday,"  said  Blondet 
solemnly.  "Raoul  will  be  elected  yet.  As  soon  as  the 
budget  is  through  the  dissolution  will  be  announced." 

Nathan,  dogged  by  the  law,  could  no  longer  look  to 
money-lenders;  Florine,  her  furniture  distrained,  had  no 
hope  left  save  in  the  chance  of  inspiring  a  passion  in  some 
good-natured  fool,  who  never  turns  up  at  the  right  moment. 
Nathan's  friends  were  all  men  without  money  or  credit.  His 
political  chances  would  be  ruined  by  his  arrest.  To  crown 
all,  he  saw  himself  pledged  to  huge  tasks,  paid  for  in  ad- 


380  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

vance;    it  was  a  bottomless  pit  of  horrors  into  which  he 

gazed. 

Before  an  outlook  so  threatening  his  self-confidence  de- 
serted him.  Would  the  Comtesse  de  Vandenesse  unite  her 
fate  to  his  and  fly  with  him  ?  Only  a  fully  developed  pas- 
sion can  bring-a  woman  to  this  fatal  step,  and  theirs  had 
never  bound  them  to  each  other  in  the  mysterious  ties  of 
rapture.  Even  supposing  the  Countess. would  follow  him 
abroad,  she  would  come  penniless,  bare,  and  stripped,  and 
would  prove  an  added  burden.  A  proud  man,  of  second- 
rate  quality,  like  Nathan,  could  not  fail  to  see  in  suicide, 
as  Nathan  did,  the  sword  with  which  to  cut  this  Gordian 
knot.  The  idea  of  overthrow,  in  full  view  of  that  society  into 
which  he  had  worked  his  way,  and  which  he  had  aspired  to 
dominate,  of  leaving  the  Countess  enthroned  there,  while  he 
fell  back  to  join  the  mud -spattered  rank  and  file,  was  unbear- 
able. Madness  danced  and  rang  her  bells  before  the  door 
of  that  airy  palace  in  which  the  poet  had  made  his  home. 
In  this  extremity,  Nathan  waited  upon  chance,  and  put  off 
killing  himself  till  the  last  moment. 

During  the  last  days,  occupied  with  the  notice  of  judg- 
ment, the  writs,  and  publication  of  order  of  arrest,  Raoul 
could  not  succeed  in  throwing  off  that  coldly  sinister  look, 
observed  by  noticing  people  to  haunt  those  marked  out  for 
suicide,  or  whose  minds  are  dwelling  on  it.  The  dismal 
ideas  which  they  fondle  cast  a  gray,  gloomy  shade  over  the 
forehead ;  their  smile  is  vaguely  ominous,  and  they  move 
with  solemnity.  The  unhappy  wretches  seem  resolved  to 
sack  dry  the  golden  fruit  of  life;  they  cast  appealing 
glances  on  every  side,  the  toll  of  the  passing  bell  is  in 
their  ears,  and  their  minds  wander.  These  alarming 
symptoms  were  perceived  by  Marie  one  night  at  Lady 
Dudley's.  Raoul  had  remained  alone  on  a  sofa  in  the 
bondoir,  while  the  rest  of  the  company  were  conversing 
in  the  drawing-room;  when  the  Countess  came  to  the  door, 
he  did  not  raise  his  head;  he  heard  neither  Marie's  breath 
nor  the  rustle  of  her  silk  dress;  his  eyes,  stupid  with  pain, 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  381 

were  fixed  on  a  flower  in  the  carpet.  "Sooner  die  than  ab- 
dicate," was  his  thought.  It  is  not  every  man  who  has  a 
Saint-Helena  to  retire  upon.  Suicide,  moreover,  was  at 
that  time  in  vogue  in  Paris:  what  more  suitable  key  to 
the  mystery  of  life  for  a  sceptical  society  ?  Eaoul  then 
had  just  resolved  to  put  an  end  to  himself.  Despair  must 
be  proportioned  to  hope,  and  that  of  Raoul  could  find  no 
issue  but  the  grave. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  Marie,  flying  to  him. 

"Nothing,"  he  replied. 

Lovers  have  a  way  of  using  this  word  "nothing"  which 
implies  exactly  the  opposite.  Marie  gave  a  little  shrug. 

"What  a  child  you  are!"  she  said.  "Something  has 
gone  wrong  with  you?" 

"Not  with  me,"  he  said.  "Besides,"  he  added  affection- 
ately, "you  will  know  it  all  too  soon,  Marie." 

"What  were  you  thinking  of  when  I  came  in  ?"  she  said, 
with  an  air  that  would  not  be  denied. 

"Are  you  determined  to  know  the  truth  ?" 

She  bowed  her  head. 

"I  was  thinking  of  you;  I  said  to  myself  that  many  men 
in  my  place  would  have  wished  to  be  loved  without  reserve: 
I  am  loved,  am  I  not?" 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

Braving  the  risk  of  interruption,  Raoul  put  his  arm  round 
her  and  drew  her  near  enough  to  kiss  her  on  the  forehead,  as 
he  continued: 

"And  I  am  leaving  you  pure  and  free  from  remorse.  I 
might  drag  you  into  the  abyss,  but  you  stand  upon  the  brink 
in  all  your  stainless  glory.  One  thought,  though,  haunts 
me  ..." 

"What  thought?" 

"You  will  despise  me." 

She  smiled  a  proud  smile. 

"Yes,  you  will  never  believe  in  the  holiness  of  my  love 
for  you;  and  then  they  will  slander  me,  1  know.  No  woman 
can  conceive  how,  from  out  of  the  filth  in  which  we  wallow, 


382  BALZACTS   WORKS 

we  raise  our  eyes  to  heaven  in  single-hearted  worship  of  some 
radiant  star— some  Marie.  They  mix  up  this  adoration  with 
painful  questions;  they  cannot  understand  that  men  of  high 
intellect  and  poetic  vision  are  able  to  wean  their  souls  from 
pleasure  and  keep  them  to  lay  entire  upon  some  cherished 
altar.  And  yet,  Marie,  our  devotion  to  the  ideal  is  more 
ardent  than  yours;  we  embody  it  in  a  woman,  while  she 
does  not  even  seek  for  it  in  us." 

"Why  this  effusion?"  she  said,  with  the  irony  of  a 
woman  who  has  no  misgivings. 

"I  am  leaving  France;  you  will  learn  how  and  why  to- 
morrow from  a  letter  which  my  servant  will  bring  you. 
Farewell,  Marie." 

Eaoul  went  out,  after  pressing  the  Countess  to  his  heart 
in  an  agonized  embrace,  and  left  her  dazed  with  misery. 

"What  is  wrong,  dear?"  said  the  Marquise  d'Espard, 
coming  to  look  for  her.  "What  has  M.  Nathan  been  sav- 
ing ?  He  left  us  with  quite  a  melodramatic  air.  You  must 
have  been  terribly  foolish — or  terribly  prudent. " 

The  Countess  took  Mme.  d'Espard's  arm  to  return  to 
the  drawing-room,  where,  however,  she  only  stayed  a  few 
instants. 

"Perhaps  she  is  going  to  her  first  appointment,"  said 
Lady  Dudley  to  the  Marchioness. 

"I  shall  make  sure  as  to  that,"  replied  Mme.  d'Espard, 
who  left  at  once  to  follow  the  Countess's  carriage. 

But  the  coupe*  of  Mme.  de  Vandenesse  took  the  road  to 
the  Faubourg  St.  Honore.  When  Mme.  d'Espard  entered 
her  house,  she  saw  the  Countess  driving  along  the  Faubourg 
in  the  direction  of  the  Eue  du  Eocher.  Marie  went  to  bed, 
but  not  to  sleep,  and  spent  the  night  in  reading  a  voyage 
to  the  North  Pole,  of  which  she  did  not  take  in  a  word. 

At  half-past  eight  next  morning,  she  got  a  letter  from 
Eaoul  and  opened  it  in  feverish  haste.  The  letter  began 
with  the  classic  phrase: 

"My  loved  one,  when  this  paper  is  in  your  hands,  I 
shall  be  no  more." 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  383 

She  read  no  further,  but  crushing  the  paper  with  a  ner- 
vous motion,  rang  for  her  maid,  hastily  put  on  a  loose  gown, 
and  the  first  pair  of  shoes  that  came  to  hand,  wrapped  a  shawl 
round  her,  took  a  bonnet,  and  then  went  out,  instructing  her 
maid  to  tell  the  Count  that  she  had  gone  to  her  sister,  Mme. 
du  Tillet. 

' '  Where  did  you  leave  your  master  ? ' '  she  asked  of  Kaoul's 
servant. 

"At  the  newspaper  office." 

"Take  me  there,"  she  said. 

To  the  amazement  of  the  household,  she  left  the  house  on 
foot  before  nine  o'clock,  visibly  distraught.  Fortunately  for 
her,  the  maid  went  to  tell  the  Count  that  her  mistress  had 
just  received  a  letter  from  Mme.  du  Tillet  which  had  upset 
her  very  much,  and  that  she  had  started  in  a  great  hurrj 
for  her  sister's  house,  accompanied  by  the  servant  who  had 
brought  the  letter.  Vandenesse  waited  for  further  explana- 
tions till  his  wife's  return.  The  Countess  got  a  cab  and  was 
borne  rapidly  to  the  office.  At  that  time  of  day  the  spacious 
rooms  occupied  by  the  paper,  in  an  old  house  in  the  Eue  Fey- 
deau,  were  deserted.  The  only  occupant  was  an  attendant, 
whose  astonishment  was  great  when  a  pretty  and  distracted 
young  woman  rushed  up  and  demanded  M.  Nathan. 

"I  expect  he  is  with  Mile.  Florine,"  he  replied,  taking 
the  Countess  for  some  jealous  rival,  bent  on  making  a  scene. 

' '  W  here  does  he  work  ? ' '  she  asked. 

"In  a  small  room,  the  key  of  which  is  in  his  pocket." 

"I  must  go  there." 

The  man  led  her  to  a  dark  room,  looking  out  on  a  back- 
yard, which  had  formerly  been  the  dressing-closet  attached 
to  a  large  bedroom.  This  closet  made  an  angle  with  the 
bedroom,  in  which  the  recess  for  the  bed  still  remained. 
By  opening  the  bedroom  window,  the  Countess  was  able  to 
see  through  that  of  the  closet  what  was  happening  within. 

Nathan  lay  in  the  editorial  chair,  the  death-rattle  in  his 
throat. 

"Break  open  that  door,  and  tell  no  one  I     I  will  pay  you 


384  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

to  keep  silence,"  she  cried.  "Can't  you  see  that  M.  Nathan 
is  dying  ? ' ' 

The  man  went  to  the  compositors'  room  to  fetch  an  iron 
chase  with  which  to  force  the  door.  Raoul  was  killing  him- 
self, like  some  poor  work-girl,  with  the  fumes  from  a  pan  of 
charcoal.  He  had  just  finished  a  letter  to  Blondet,  in  which 
he  begged  him  to  attribute  his  death  to  a  fit  of  apoplexy. 
The  Countess  was  just  in  time;  she  had  Raoul  carried  into 
the  cab ;  and  not  knowing  where  to  get  him  looked  after, 
she  went  to  a  hotel,  took  a  room  there,  and  sent  the  attend- 
ant to  fetch  a  doctor.  Raoul  in  a  few  hours  was  out  of  dan- 
ger; but  the  Countess  did  not  leave  his  bedside  till  she  had 
obtained  a  full  confession.  When  the  prostrate  wrestler  with 
fate  had  poured  into  her  heart  the  terrible  elegy  of  his  suf- 
ferings, she  returned  home  a  prey  to  all  the  torturing  fancies 
which  the  evening  before  had  brooded  over  Nathan's  brow. 

"Leave  it  all  to  me,"  she  had  said,  hoping  to  win  him 
back  to  life. 

"Well,  what  is  wrong  with  your  sister?"  asked  Felix, 
on  seeing  his  wife  return.  ' '  You  look  like  a  ghost. ' ' 

"It  is  a  frightful  story,  but  I  must  keep  it  an  absolute 
secret,"  she  replied,  summoning  all  her  strength  to  put  on 
an  appearance  of  composure. 

In  order  to  be  alone  and  able  to  think  in  peace,  she  went 
to  the  opera  in  the  evening,  and  thence  had  gone  on  to  un- 
bosom her  woes  to  Mme.  du  Tillet.  After  describing  the 
ghastly  scene  of  the  morning,  she  implored  her  sister's 
advice  and  aid.  Neither  of  them  had  an  idea  then  that 
it  was  du  Tillet  whose  hand  had  put  the  match  to  that 
vulgar  pan  of  charcoal,  the  sight  of  which  had  so  dis- 
mayed Mme.  de  Vandenesse. 

"He  has  no  one  but  me  in  the  world,"  Marie  had  said 
to  her  sister,  "and  I  shall  not  fail  him." 

In  these  words  may  be  read  the  key  to  women's  hearts. 
They  become  heroic  in  the  assurance  of  being  all  in  all  to 
a  great  and  honorable  man. 


A  DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  385 

CHAPTEE  VIII 

A  LOVER   SAVED   AND   LOST 

~W~^\  U  TILLET  had  heard  many  speculations  as  to  the 
/  i  greater  or  less  probability  of  his  sister-in-law's  love 
for  Nathan;  but  he  was  one  of  those  who  deemed 
the  liaison  incompatible  with  that  existing  between  Eaoul 
and  Florine,  or  who  denied  it  on  other  grounds.  In  his 
view,  either  the  actress  made  the  Countess  impossible,  or 
vice  versa.  But  when,  on  his  return  that  evening,  he  found 
his  sister-in-law,  whose  agitation  had  been  plainly  written 
on  her  face  at  the  opera,  he  surmised  that  Raoul  had  con- 
fided his  plight  to  the  Countess.  This  meant  that  the 
Countess  loved  him,  and  had  come  to  beg  from  Marie- 
Eugenie  the  amount  due  to  old  Gigonnet.  Mme.  du  Til- 
let,  at  a  loss  how  to  explain  this  apparently  miraculous 
insight,  had  betrayed  so  much  confusion  that  du  Tillet's 
suspicion  became  a  certainty.  The  banker  was  confident 
that  he  could  now  get  hold  of  the  clew  to  Nathan's  in- 
trigues. 

No  one  knew  of  the  poor  wretch  who  lay  ill  in  a  private 
hotel  in  the  Eue  du  Mail,  under  the  name  of  the  attendant, 
Frangois  Quillet,  to  whom  the  Countess  had  promised  five 
hundred  francs  as  the  reward  for  silence  on  the  events  of 
the  night  and  morning.  Quillet  in  consequence  had  taken 
the  precaution  of  telling  the  portress  that  Nathan  was  ill 
from  overwork.  It  was  no  surprise  to  du  Tillet  not  to  see 
Nathan,  for  it  was  only  natural  the  journalist  should  keep 
in  hiding  from  the  bailiffs.  When  the  detectives  came  to 
make  inquiry,  they  were  told  that  a  lady  had  been  there 
that  morning  and  carried  off  the  editor.  Two  days  elapsed 
before  they  had  discovered  the  number  of  the  cab,  ques- 
tioned the  driver,  and  identified  and  explored  the  house 
in  which  the  poor  insolvent  was  coming  back  to  life. 
Vol.  A.  BALZAC— 17 


336  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Thus  Marie's  wary  tactics  had  won  for  Nathan  a  respite 
of  three  days. 

Each  of  the  sisters  passed  an  agitated  night.  Such  a 
tragedy  casts  a  lurid  light,  like  the  glow  of  its  own  char- 
coal, upon  the  whole  substance  of  a  life,  throwing  out  its 
shoals  and  reefs  rather  than  the  heights  which  hitherto  had 
struck  the  eye.  Mme.  du  Tillet,  overcome  by  the  frightful 
spectacle  of  a  young  man  dying  in  his  editorial  chair,  and 
writing  his  last  words  with  Koman  stoicism,  could  think  of 
nothing  but  how  to  help  him,  how  to  restore  to  life  the 
being  in  whom  her  sister's  life  was  bound  up.  It  is  a  law 
of  the  mind  to  look  at  effects  before  analyzing  causes.  Eu- 
genie once  more  approved  the  idea,  which  had  occurred  to 
her,  of  applying  to  the  Baronne  Delphine  de  Nucingen, 
with  whom  she  had  a  dining  acquaintance,  and  felt  that  it 
promised  well.  With  the  generosity  natural  to  those  whose 
hearts  have  not  been  ground  in  the  polished  mill  of  society, 
Mme.  du  Tillet  determined  to  take  everything  upon  herself. 

The  Countess  again,  happy  in  having  saved  Nathan's  life, 
spent  the  night  in  scheming  how  to  lay  her  hands  on  forty 
thousand  francs.  In  such  a  crisis  women  are  beyond  praise. 
Under  the  impulse  of  feeling  they  light  upon  contrivances 
which  would  excite,  if  anything  could,  the  admiration  of 
thieves,  brokers,  and  usurers,  those  three  more  or  less 
licensed  classes  of  men  who  live  by  their  wits.  The  Coun- 
tess would  sell  her  diamonds  and  wear  false  ones.  Then 
she  was  for  asking  Yandenesse  to  give  her  the  money  for 
her  sister,  whom  she  had  already  used  as  a  pretext;  but 
she  was  too  high-minded  not  to  recoil  from  such  degrading 
expedients,  which  occurred  to  her  only  to  be  rejected.  To 
give  Vandenesse's  money  to  Nathan!  At  the  very  thought 
she  leaped  up  in  bed,  horrified  at  her  own  baseness.  Wear 
false  diamonds!  her  husband  would  find  out  sooner  or  later. 
She  would  go  and  beg  the  money  from  the  Rothschilds,  who 
had  so  much;  from  the  Archbishop  of  Paris,  whose  duty  it 
was  to  succor  the  poor.  Thus  in  her  extremity  she  rushed 
from  one  religion  to  another  with  impartial  prayers.  She  la- 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  387 

merited  being  in  opposition ;  in  old  days  she  could  have  bor- 
rowed from  persons  near  to  royalty.  She  thought  of  apply- 
ing to  her  father.  But  the  ex-judge  had  a  horror  of  any 
breach  of  the  law;  his  children  had  learned  from  experience 
how  little  sympathy  he  had  with  love  troubles;  he  refused 
to  hear  of  them,  he  had  become  a  misanthrope,  he  could  not 
bear  with  intrigue  of  any  description.  As  to  the  Comtesse 
de  Granville,  she  had  gone  to  live  in  retirement  on  one  of 
her  estates  in  Normandy,  and,  icy  to  the  last,  was  ending 
her  days,  pinching  and  praying,  between  priests  and  money- 
bags. Even  were  there  time  for  Marie  to  reach  Bayeux, 
would  her  mother  give  her  so  large  a  sum  without  knowing 
what  it  was  wanted  for  ?  Imaginary  debts  ?  Yes,  possibly 
her  favorite  child  might  move  her  to  compassion.  Well, 
then,  as  a  last  resource,  to  Normandy  the  Countess  would 
go.  The  Comte  de  Granville  would  not  refuse  to  give  her 
a  pretext  by  sending  false  news  of  his  wife's  serious  illness. 
The  tragedy  which  had  given  her  such  a  shock  in  the 
morning,  the  care  she  had  lavished  on  Nathan,  the  hours 
passed  by  his  bedside,  the  broken  tale,  the  agony  of  a  great 
mind,  the  career  of  genius  cut  short  by  a  vulgar  and  ignoble 
detail,  all  rushed  upon  her  memory  as  so  many  spurs  to  love. 
Once  more  she  lived  through  every  heart  throb,  and  felt  her 
love  stronger  in  the  hour  of  Nathan's  abasement  than  in  that 
of  his  success.  Would  she  have  kissed  that  forehead  crowned 
with  triumph?  Her  heart  answered :  No.  The  parting  words 
Nathan  had  spoken  to  her  in  Lady  Dudley's  boudoir  touched 
her  unspeakably  by  their  noble  dignity.  Was  ever  farewell 
more  saintly  ?  What  could  be  more  heroic  than  to  abandon 
happiness  because  it  would  have  made  her  misery?  The 
Countess  had  longed  for  sensations  in  her  life,  truly  she  had 
a  wealth  of  them  now,  fearful,  agonizing,  and  yet  dear  to 
her.  Her  life  seemed  fuller  in  pain  than  it  had  ever  been 
in  pleasure.  With  what  ecstasy  she  repeated  to  herself,  "I 
have  saved  him  already,  and  I  will  save  him  again!"  She 
heard  his  cry,  "Only  the  miserable  know  the  power  of  love!" 
when  he  had  felt  his  Marie's  lips  upon  his  forehead. 


388  BALZAC 'S   WORKS 

"Are  you  ill  ?"  asked  her  husband,  coming  into  her  room 
to  fetch  her  for  lunch. 

"I  cannot  get  over  the  tragedy  which  is  being  enacted  at 
my  sister's,"  she  said,  truthfully  enough. 

"She  has  fallen  into  bad  hands;  it's  a  disgrace  to  the 
family  to  have  a  du  Tillet  in  it,  a  worthless  fellow  like  that. 
If  your  sister  got  into  any  trouble,  she  would  find  scant  pity 
with  him." 

"What  woman  could  endure  pity?"  said  the  Countess, 
with  an  involuntary  shudder.  "Your  ruthless  harshness  is 
the  truest  homage. ' ' 

"There  speaks  your  noble  heart!"  said  Felix,  kissing  his 
wife's  hand,  quite  touched  by  her  fine  scorn.  "A  woman 
who  feels  like  that  does  not  need  guarding." 

"Guarding?"  she  answered;  "that  again  is  another  dis- 
grace which  recoils  on  you." 

Felix  smiled,  but  Marie  blushed.  When  a  woman  has 
committed  a  secret  fault,  she  cloaks  herself  in  an  exagger- 
ated womanly  pride,  nor  can  we  blame  the  fraud,  which  points 
to  a  reserve  of  dignity  or  even  high-mindedness. 

Marie  wrote  a  line  to  Nathan,  under  the  name  of  M.  Quil- 
let, to  tell  him  that  all  was  going  well  and  sent  it  by  a  com- 
missionaire to  the  Mail  Hotel.  At  the  Opera  in  the  evening 
the  Countess  reaped  the  benefit  of  her  falsehoods,  her  hus- 
band finding  it  quite  natural  that  she  should  leave  her  box 
to  go  and  see  her  sister.  Felix  waited  to  give  her  his  arm 
till  du  Tillet  had  left  his  wife  alone.  What  were  not  Marie's 
feelings  as  she  crossed  the  passage,  entered  her  sister's  box, 
and  took  her  seat  there,  facing  with  calm  and  serene  counte- 
nance the  world  of  fashion,  amazed  to  see  the  sisters  together! 

"Tell  me,"  she  said. 

The  reply  was  written  on  Marie-Eugenie's  face,  the  radi- 
ance of  which  many  people  ascribed  to  gratified  vanity. 

"Yes,  he  will  be  saved,  darling,  but  for  three  months  only, 
during  which  time  we  will  put  our  heads  together  and  find 
some  more  substantial  help.  Mme.  de  Nucingen  will  take 
four  bills,  each  for  ten  thousand  francs,  signed  by  any  one 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  889 

you  like,  so  as  not  to  compromise  you.  She  has  explained 
to  me  how  they  are  to  be  made  out;  I  don't  understand  in 
the  least,  but  M.  Nathan  will  get  them  ready  for  you.  Only 
it  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  our  old  master,  Schmucke, 
might  be  useful  to  us  now;  he  would  sign  them.  If,  in  ad- 
dition to  these  four  securities,  you  write  a  letter  guaranteeing 
their  payment  to  Mine,  de  Nucingen,  she  will  hand  you  the 
money  to-morrow.  Do  the  whole  thing  yourself;  don't  trust 
to  anybody.  Schmucke,  you  see,  would,  I  think,  make  no 
difficulty  if  you  asked  him.  To  disarm  suspicion,  I  said  that 
you  wanted  to  do  a  kindness  to  our  old  music-master,  a  Ger- 
man, who  was  in  trouble.  In  this  way  I  was  able  to  beg  for 
the  strictest  secrecy. ' ' 

"You  angel  of  cleverness!  If  only  the  Baronne  de  Nu- 
cingen  does  not  talk  till  after  she  has  given  the  money!" 
said  the  Countess,  raising  her  eyes  as  though  in  prayer,  re- 
gardless of  her  surroundings. 

"Schmucke  lives  in  the  little  Rue  de  Nevers,  on  the 
Quai  Conti;  don't  forget,  and  go  yourself." 

"Thanks,"  said  the  Countess,  pressing  her  sister's  hand. 
Ah!  I  would  give  ten  years  of  my  life — " 

"From  your  old  age — " 

"To  put  an  end  to  all  these  horrors,"  said  the  Countess, 
with  a  smile  at  the  interruption. 

The  crowd  at  this  moment,  spying  the  two  sisters  through 
their  opera-glasses,  might  suppose  them  to  be  talking  of  trivi- 
alities, as  they  heard  the  ring  of  their  frank  laughter.  But 
any  one  of  those  idlers,  who  frequent  the  Opera  rather  to 
study  dress  and  faces  than  to  enjoy  themselves,  would  be 
able  to  detect  the  secret  of  the  Countess  in  the  wave  of  feel- 
ing which  suddenly  blotted  all  cheerfulness  out  of  their  fair 
faces.  Raoul,  who  did  not  fear  the  bailiffs  at  night,  ap- 
peared, pale  and  ashy,  with  anxious  eye  and  gloomy  brow, 
on  the  step  of  the  staircase  where  he  regularly  took  his 
stand.  He  looked  for  the  Countess  in  her  box  and,  finding 
it  empty,  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  leaning  his  elbows 
on  the  balustrade.  "Can  she  be  here!"  he  thought. 


390  BALZAC  *s  WORKS 

"Look  up,  unhappy  hero,"  whispered  Mme.  du  Tillet. 

As  for  Marie,  at  all  risks  she  fixed  on  him  that  steady 
magnetic  gaze,  in  which  the  will  flashes  from  the  eye,  as 
rays  of  light  from  the  sun.  Such  a  look,  mesmerizers  say, 
penetrates  to  the  person  on  whom  it  is  directed,  and  certainly 
Kaoul  seemed  as  though  struck  by  a  magic  wand.  Eaising 
his  head,  his  eyes  met  those  of  the  sisters.  With  that  charm- 
ing feminine  readiness  which  is  never  at  fault,  Mme.  de 
Yandenesse  seized  a  cross,  sparkling  on  her  neck,  and  di- 
rected his  attention  to  it  by  a  swift  smile,  full  of  meaning. 
The  brilliance  of  the  gem  radiated  even  upon  Raoul 's  fore- 
head, and  he  replied  with  a  look  of  joy ;  he  had  understood. 

"Is  it  nothing,  then,  Eugenie,"  said  the  Countess,  "thus 
to  restore  life  to  the  dead  ?" 

' '  You  have  a  chance  yet  with  the  Royal  Humane  Society, ' ' 
replied  Eugenie,  with  a  smile. 

"How  wretched  and  depressed  he  looked  when  he  came, 
and  how  happy  he  will  go  away!" 

At  this  moment  du  Tillet,  coming  up  to  Raoul  with  every 
mark  of  friendliness,  pressed  his  hand,  and  said:  "Well,  old 
fellow,  how  are  you?" 

"As  well  as  a  man  is  likely  to  be  who  has  just  got  the 
best  possible  news  of  the  election.  I  shall  be  successful," 
replied  Raoul,  radiant. 

"Delighted,"  said  du  Tillet.  "We  shall  want  money  for 
the  paper. ' ' 

"The  money  will  be  found,"  said  Raoul. 

"The  devil  is  with  these  women!"  exclaimed  du  Tillet, 
still  unconvinced  by  the  words  of  Raoul,  whom  he  had  nick- 
named Charnathan. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  said  Raoul. 

"My  sister-in-law  is  there  with  my  wife,  and  they  are 
hatching  something  together.  You  seem  in  high  favor  with 
the  Countess ;  she  is  bowing  to  you  right  across  the  house. ' ' 

"Look,"  said  Mme.  du  Tillet  to  her  sister,  "they  told  us 
wrong.  See  how  my  husband  fawns  on  M.  Nathan,  and  it 
is  he  who  they  declared  was  trying  to  get  him  put  in  prison!" 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  391 

"And  men  call  us  slanderers!"  cried  the  Countess.  "I 
will  give  him  a  warning." 

She  rose,  took  the  arm  of  Vandenesse,  who  was  waiting 
in  the  passage,  and  returned  jubilant  to  her  box;  by  and  by 
she  left  the  Opera,  ordered  her  carriage  for  the  next  morning 
before  eight  o'clock,  and  found  herself  at  half-past  eight  on 
the  Quai  Conti,  having  called  at  the  Rue  du  Mail  on  her  way. 

The  carriage  could  not  enter  the  narrow  Rue  de  Nevers; 
but,  as  Schmucke's  house  stood  at  the  corner  of  the  Quai, 
the  Countess  was  not  obliged  to  walk  to  it  through  the  mud. 
She  almost  leaped  from  the  step  of  the  carriage  on  to  the  dirty 
and  dilapidated  entrance  of  the  grimy  old  house,  which  was 
held  together  by  iron  clamps,  like  a  poor  man's  crockery, 
and  overhung  the  street  in  quite  an  alarming  fashion. 

The  old  organist  lived  on  the  fourth  floor,  and  rejoiced 
in  a  beautiful  view  of  the  Seine,  from  the  Pont  Neuf  to  the 
rising  ground  of  Chaillot.  The  simple  fellow  was  so*  taken 
aback  when  the  footman  announced  his  former  pupil  that, 
before  he  could  recover  himself,  she  was  in  the  room.  Never 
could  the  Countess  have  imagined  or  guessed  at  an  existence 
such  as  that  suddenly  laid  bare  to  her,  though  she  had  long 
known  Schmucke's  scorn  for  appearances  and  his  indifference 
to  worldly  things.  Who  could  have  believed  in  so  neglected 
a  life,  in  carelessness  carried  to  such  a  pitch?  Schmucke 
was  a  musical  Diogenes;  he  felt  no  shame  for  the  hugger- 
mugger  in  which  he  lived;  indeed,  custom  had  made  him 
insensible  to  it. 

The  constant  use  of  a  fat,  friendly,  German  pipe  had 
spread  over  the  ceiling  and  the  flimsy  wall-paper — well 
rubbed  by  the  cat — a  faint  yellow  tint,  which  gave  a  per- 
vading impression  of  the  golden  harvests  of  Ceres.  The 
cat,  whose  long  ruffled  silky  coat  made  a  garment  such  as 
a  portress  might  have  envied,  did  the  honors  of  the  house, 
sedately  whiskered,  and  entirely  at  her  ease.  From  the  top 
of  a  first-rate  Vienna  piano,  where  she  lay  couched  in  state, 
she  cast  on  the  Countess  as  she  entered  the  gracious  yet 
chilly  glance  with  which  any  woman,  astonished  at  her 


392  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

beauty,  might  have  greeted  her.  She  did  not  stir,  except 
to  wave  the  two  silvery  threads  of  her  upright  mustache  and 
to  fix  upon  Schmucke  two  golden  eyes.  The  piano,  which 
had  known  better  days,  and  was  -cased  in  a  good  wood, 
painted  black  and  gold,  was  dirty,  discolored,  chipped,  and 
its  keys  were  worn  like  the  teeth  of  an  old  horse  and  mel- 
lowed by  the  deeper  tints  which  fell  from  the  pipe.  Little 
piles  of  ashes  on  the  ledge  proclaimed  that  the  night  before 
Schmucke  had  bestridden  the  old  instrument  to  some  witches' 
rendezvous.  The  brick  floor,  strewn  with  dried  mud,  torn 
paper,  pipe  ashes,  and  odds  and  ends  that  defy  description, 
suggested  the  boards  of  a  lodging-house  floor,  when  they 
have  not  been  swept  for  a  week,  and  heaps  of  litter,  a  cross 
between  the  contents  of  the  ash-pit  and  the  rag-bag,  await 
the  servants'  brooms.  A  more  practiced  eye  than  that  of 
the  Countess  might  have  read  indications  of  Schmucke's 
way  of  living  in  the  chestnut  parings,  scraps  of  apple  peel, 
and  shells  of  Easter  eggs,  which  covered  broken  fragments 
of  plates,  all  messed  with  sauerkraut.  This  German  detritus 
formed  a  carpet  of  dusty  filth  which  grated  under  the  feet 
and  lost  itself  in  a  mass  of  cinders,  dropping  with  slow  dig- 
nity from  a  painted  stone  fireplace,  where  a  lump  of  coal 
lorded  it  over  two  half -burned  logs  that  seemed  to  waste 
away  before  it.  On  the  mantel- piece  was  a  pier-glass  with 
figures  dancing  a  saraband  round  it ;  on  one  side  the  glorious 
pipe  hung  on  a  nail,  on  the  other  stood  a  china  pot  in  which 
the  Professor  kept  his  tobacco.  Two  armchairs,  casually 
picked  up,  together  with  a  thin,  flattened  couch,  a  worm- 
eaten  chest  of  drawers  with  the  marble  top  gone,  and  a 
maimed  table,  on  which  lay  the  remains  of  a  frugal  break- 
fast, made  up  the  furniture,  unpretending  as  that  of  a  Mo- 
hican wigwam.  A  shaving-glass  hanging  from  the  catch  of 
a  curtainless  window,  and  surmounted  by  a  rag,  striped  by 
razor  scrapings,  were  evidence  of  the  sole  sacrifices  paid  by 
Schmucke  to  the  graces  and  to  society. 

The  cat,  petted  as  a  feeble  and  dependent  being,  was  the 
best  off.     It  rejoiced  in  an  old  armchair  cushion,   beside 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  393 

which  stood  a  white  china  cup  and  dish.  But  what  no  pen 
can  describe  is  the  state  to  which  Schmucke,  the  cat,  and  the 
pipe— trinity  of  living  beings — had  reduced  the  furniture. 
The  pipe  had  scorched  the  table  in  places.  The  cat  and 
Schmucke 's  head  had  greased  the  green  Utrecht  velvet  of 
the  two  armchairs  till  it  was  worn  quite  smooth.  But  for  the 
cat's  magnificent  tail,  which  did  a  part  of  the  cleaning,  the 
dust  would  have  lain  forever  undisturbed  on  the  uncovered 
parts  of  the  chest  of  drawers  and  piano.  In  a  corner  lay  the 
army  of  slippers,  to  which  only  a  Homeric  catalogue  could 
do  justice.  The  tops  of  the  chest  of  drawers  and  of  the  piano 
were  blocked  with  broken-backed,  loose-paged  music-books, 
the  boards  showing  all  the  pages  peeping  through,  with  cor- 
ners white  and  dog's-eared.  Along  the  walls  the  addresses 
of  pupils  were  glued  with  little  wafers.  The  wafers  without 
papers  showed  the  number  of  obsolete  addresses.  On  the 
wall-paper  chalk  additions  might  be  read.  The  chest  of 
drawers  was  adorned  with  last  night's  tankards,  which  stood 
out  quite  fresh  and  bright  in  the  midst  of  all  this  stuffiness 
and  decay.  Hygiene  was  represented  by  a  water-jug  crowned 
with  a  towel  and  a  bit  of  common  soap,  white  marbled  with 
blue,  which  left  its  damp-mark  here  and  there  on  the  red 
wood.  Two  hats,  equally  ancient,  hung  on  pegs,  from  which 
also  was  suspended  the  familiar  blue  ulster  with  its  three 
capes,  without  which  the  Countess  would  hardly  have  known 
Schmucke.  Beneath  the  window  stood  three  pots  of  flowers, 
German  flowers  presumably,  and  close  by  a  holly  walking- 
stick. 

Though  the  Countess  was  disagreeably  affected  both  in 
sight  and  smell,  yet  Schmucke's  eyes  and  smile  transformed 
the  sordid  scene  with  heavenly  rays,  that  gave  a  glory  to  the 
dingy  tones  and  animation  to  the  chaos.  The  soul  of  this 
man,  who  seemed  to  belong  to  another  world  and  revealed 
so  many  of  its  mysteries,  radiated  light  like  a  sun.  His  frank 
and  hearty  laugh  at  the  sight  of  one  of  his  Saint  Cecilias 
diffused  the  brightness  of  youth,  mirth,  and  innocence.  He 
poured  out  treasures  of  that  which  mankind  holds  dearest, 


394  BALZAC1 8    WORKS 

and  made  a  cloak  of  them  to  veil  his  poverty.  The  most 
purse-proud  upstart  would  perhaps  have  blushed  to  think 
twice  of  the  surroundings  within  which  moved  this  noble 
apostle  of  the  religion  of  music. 

"Eh,  py  vot  tchance  came  you  here,  tear  Montame  la 
Grondesse?"  he  said.  "Must  I  den  zing  de  zong  ov  Zimeon 
at  mein  asche?" 

This  idea  started  him  on  another  peal  of  ringing  laughter. 

"Is  it  dat  1  haf  a  conqvest  made?"  he  went  on,  with  a 
look  of  cunning. 

Then,  laughing  like  a  child  again: 

"You  com  for  de  musike,  not  for  a  boor  man,  I  know," 
he  said  sadly;  "but  come  for  vat  you  vill,  you  know  dat 
all  is  here  for  you,  pody,  zoul,  ant  coots!" 

He  took  the  hand  of  the  Countess,  kissed  it,  and  dropped 
a  tear,  for  with  this  good  man  every  day  was  the  morrow 
of  a  kindness  received.  His  joy  had  for  a  moment  deprived 
him  of  memory,  only  to  bring  it  back  in  greater  force.  He 
seized  on  the  chalk,  leaped  on  the  armchair  in  front  of  the 
piano,  and  then,  with  the  alacrity  of  a  young  man,  wrote  on 
the  wall  in  large  letters,  "February  17,  1835."  This  move- 
ment, so  pretty  and  artless,  came  with  such  an  outburst  of 
gratitude  that  the  Countess  was  quite  moved. 

"My  sister  is  coming  too,"  she  said. 

"De  oder  alzo!  Ven?  Ven?  May  it  pe  bevor  I  tie!" 
he  replied. 

"She  will  come  to  thank  you  for-  a  great  favor  which  I  am 
here  now  to  ask  from  you  on  her  behalf." 

"Qvick!  qvick!  qvick!  qvick!"  cried  Schmucke,  "vot 
is  dis  dat  I  mosd  do  ?  Mosd  I  to  de  teufel  go  ?" 

"I  only  want  you  to  write,  I  promise  to  pay  the  sum  often 
thousand  francs  on  each  of  these  papers,"  she  said,  drawing 
from  her  muff  the  four  bills,  which  Nathan  had  prepared  in 
accordance  with  the  formula  prescribed. 

"Ach!  dat  vill  pe  soon  tone,"  replied  the  German  with 
a  lamblike  docility.  "Only,  I  know  not  vere  are  mein  bens 
and  baber. — Get  you  away,  Meinherr  Mirr, ' '  he  cried  to  the 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  395 

cat,  who  stared  at  him  frigidly.  "Dis  is  mein  gat,"  he  said, 
pointing  it  out  to  the  Countess.  "Dis  is  de  boor  peast  vich 
lifs  mit  de  boor  Schmucke.  He  is  peautivul,  not  zo?" 

The  Countess  agreed. 

"You  vould  vish  him?" 

"What  an  idea!     Take  away  your  friend!" 

The  cat,  who  was  hiding  the  ink-bottle,  divined  what 
Schmucke  wanted  and  jumped  on  to  the  bed. 

"He  is  naughty  ass  ein  monkey!"  he  went  on,  pointing 
to  it  on  the  bed. — "I  name  him  Mirr,  for  do  glorivy  our  creat 
Hoffmann  at  Berlin,  dat  I  haf  mosh  known." 

The  good  man  signed  with  the  innocence  of  a  child  doing 
its  mother's  bidding,  utterly  ignorant  what  it  is  about,  but 
sure  that  all  will  be  right.  He  was  far  more  taken  up  with 
presenting  the  cat  to  the  Countess  than  with  the  papers, 
which,  by  the  laws  relating  to  foreigners,  might  have  de- 
prived him  forever  of  liberty. 

"You  make  me  zure  dat  dese  lettl  stambed  babers — " 

"Don't  have  the  least  uneasiness,"  said  the  Countess. 

"I  haf  not  oneasiness,"  he  replied  hastily.  "I  ask  if  dese 
lettl  stambed  babers  vil  please  de  Montame  ti  Dilet?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said;  "you  will  be  helping  her  as  a  father 
might. ' ' 

"I  am  fer  habby  do  pe  coot  do  her  for  zomting.  Com, 
do  mein  music!"  he  said,  leaving  the  papers  on  the  table 
and  springing  to  the  piano. 

In  a  moment  the  hands  of  this  unworldly  being  were  fly- 
ing over  the  well-worn  keys,  in  a  moment  his  glance  pierced 
the  roof  to  heaven,  in  a  moment  the  sweetest  of  songs  blos- 
somed in  the  air  and  penetrated  the  soul.  But  only  while 
the  ink  was  drying  could  this  simple-minded  interpreter  of 
heavenly  things  be  allowed  to  draw  forth  eloquence  from 
wood  and  string,  like  Rafael's  St.  Cecilia  playing  to  the 
listening  hosts  of  Heaven.  The  Countess  then  slipped  the 
bills  into  her  muff  again,  and  recalled  the  radiant  master 
from  the  ethereal  spheres  in  which  he  soared  by  a  touch  on 
the  shoulder. 


396  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"My  good  Schmucke,"  she  cried. 

"Zo  zoon,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  submissiveness  painful 
to  see.  "Yy  den  are  you  kom  ?" 

He  did  not  complain,  he  stood  like  a  faithful  dog,  wait- 
ing for  a  word  from  the  Countess. 

"My  good  Schmucke,"  she  again  began,  "this  is  a  ques- 
tion of  life  and  death,  minutes  now  may  be  the  price  of  blood 
and  tears. ' ' 

"Efer  de  zame!"  he  said.  "Go  den!  try  de  tears  ov 
oders!  Know  dat  de  poor  Schmucke  counts  your  fisit  for 
more  dan  your  pounty. 

"We  shall  meet  again,"  she  said.  "You  must  come  and 
play  to  me  and  dine  with  me  every  Sunday,  or  else  we  shall 
quarrel.  I  shall  expect  you  next  Sunday." 

"Truly?" 

"Indeed,  I  hope  you  will  come;  and  my  sister,  I  am 
sure,  will  fix  a  day  for  you  also. ' ' 

"Mein  habbiness  vill  be  den  gomplete,"  he  said,  "vor 
I  tid  not  zee  you  put  at  de  Champes-Hailysees,  ven  you 
passed  in  de  carrisch,  fery  rarely." 

The  thought  of  this  dried  the  tears  which  had  gathered 
in  the  old  man's  eyes  and  he  offered  his  arm  to  his  fair  pupil, 
who  could  feel  the  wild  beats  of  his  heart. 

"You  thought  of  us  then  sometimes,"  she  said. 

"Efery  time  ven  I  mein  pret  eat!"  he  replied.  "Yirst 
ass  mein  pountivul  laties,  ant  den  ass  de  two  virst  young 
girls  vurty  of  luf  dat  I  haf  zeen." 

The  Countess  dared  say  no  more!  There  was  a  marvel- 
lous and  respectful  solemnity  in  these  words,  as  though  they 
formed  part  of  some  religious  service,  breathing  fidelity. 
That  smoky  room,  that  den  of  refuse,  became  a  temple  for 
two  goddesses.  Devotion  there  waxed  stronger,  all  unknown 
to  its  objects. 

"Here,  then,  we  are  loved,  truly  loved,"  she  thought. 

The  Countess  shared  the  emotion  with  which  old  Schmucke 
saw  her  get  into  her  carriage,  as  she  blew  from  the  ends  of 
her  fingers  one  of  those  airy  kisses  which  are  a  woman's 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  397 

distant  greeting.  At  this  sight,  Schmucke  stood  transfixed 
long  after  the  carriage  had  disappeared. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  Countess  entered  the  courtyard 
of  Mme.  de  Nucingen's  house.  The  Baroness  was  not  yet 
up ;  but,  in  order  not  to  keep  a  lady  of  position  waiting,  she 
flung  round  her  a  shawl  and  dressing-gown. 

"I  come  on  the  business  of  others,  and  promptitude  is 
then  a  virtue, ' '  said  the  Countess.  "This  must  be  my  excuse 
for  disturbing  you  so  early." 

"Not  at  all !  I  am  only  too  happy, "  said  the  banker's  wife, 
taking  the  four  papers  and  the  guarantee  of  the  Countess. 

She  rang  for  her  maid. 

"Theresa,  tell  the  cashier  to  bring  me  up  himself  at  once 
forty  thousand  francs. ' ' 

Then  she  sealed  the  letter  of  Mme.  de  Yandenesse,  and 
locked  it  into  a  secret  drawer  of  her  table. 

"What  a  pretty  room  you  have!"  said  the  Countess. 

"M.  de  Nucingen  is  going  to  deprive  me  of  it;  he  is  get- 
ting a  new  house  built." 

"You  will  no  doubt  give  this  one  to  your  daughter.  I 
hear  that  she  is  engaged  to  M.  de  Rastignac." 

The  cashier  appeared  as  Mme.  de  Nucingen  was  on  the 
point  of  replying  She  took  the  notes  and  handed  him  the 
four  bills  of  exchange. 

"That  balances,"  said  the  Baroness  to  the  cashier. 

"Bgzebd  for  de  disgound,"  said  the  cashier.  "Dis 
Schmucke  iss  ein  musician  vrom  Ansbach,"  he  added,  with 
a  glance  at  the  signature,  which  sent  a  shiver  through  the 
Countess. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  am  transacting  business?"  said  Mme. 
do  Nucingen,  with  a  haughty  glance  of  rebuke  at  the  cashier. 
"This  is  my  affair." 

In  vain  did  the  cashier  cast  sly  glances,  now  at  the  Coun- 
tess, now  at  the  Baroness;  not  a  line  of  their  faces  moved. 

"You  can  leave  us  now. — Be  so  good  as  remain  a  minute 
or  two,  so  that  you  may  not  seem  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  this  matter,"  said  the  Baroness  to  Mme.  de  Yandenesse. 


398  BALZAC'S    ~>SORKS 

"I  must  beg  of  you  to  add  to  your  other  kind  services 
that  of  keeping  my  secret, ' '  said  the  Countess. 

"In  a  matter  of  charity  that  is  of  course,1  replied  the 
Baroness,  with  a  smile.  "I  shall  have  your  carriage  sent 
to  the  end  of  the  garden ;  it  will  start  without  you ;  then  we 
shall  cross  the  garden  together,  no  one  will  see  you  leave 
this.  The  whole  thing  will  remain  a  mystery." 

"You  must  have  known  suffering  to  have  learned  so 
much  thought  for  others,"  said  the  Countess. 

11 1  don't  know  about  thoughtfulness,  but  I  have  suffered 
a  great  deal,"  said  the  Baroness;  "you,  I  trust,  have  paid 
less  dearly  for  yours. ' ' 

The  orders  given,  the  Baroness  took  her  fur  shoes  and 
cloak  and  led  the  Countess  to  the  side  door  of  the  garden. 

When  a  man  is  plotting  against  any  one,  as  du  Tillet  did 
against  Nathan,  he  makes  no  confidant.  Nucingen  had  some 
notion  of  what  was  going  on,  but  his  wife  remained  entirely 
outside  this  Machiavelian  scheming.  She  knew,  however, 
that  Baoul  was  in  difficulties,  and  was  not  deceived  therefore 
by  the  sisters;  she  suspected  shrewdly  into  whose  hands  the 
money  would  pass,  and  it  gave  her  real  pleasure  to  help 
the  Countess.  Entanglements  of  the  kind  always  roused 
her  deepest  sympathy. 

Eastignac,  who  was  playing  the  detective  on  the  intrigues 
of  the  two  bankers,  came  to  lunch  with  Mme.  de  Nucingen. 
Delphine  and  Rastignac  had  no  secrets  from  each  other,  and 
she  told  him  of  her  interview  with  the  Countess.  Eastignac, 
unable  to  imagine  how  the  Baroness  had  become  mixed  up 
in  this  affair,  which  in  his  eyes  was  merely  incidental,  one 
weapon  among  many,  explained  to  her  that  she  had  this  morn- 
ing in  all  probability  demolished  the  electoral  hopes  of  du 
Tillet  and  rendered  abortive  the  foul  play  and  sacrifices  of  a 
whole  year.  He  then  went  on  to  enlighten  her  as  to  the  whole 
position,  urging  her  to  keep  silence  about  her  own  mistake. 

"If  only,"  she  said,  "the  cashier  does  not  speak  of  it  to 
Nucingen." 


A   DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  399 

Du  Tillet  was  at  lunch  when,  a  few  minutes  after  twelve, 
M.  Grigonnet  was  announced. 

"Show  him  in,"  said  the  banker,  regardless  of  his  wife's 
presence.  "Well,  old  Shylock,  is  our  man  under  lock  and 
key?" 

"No." 

"No!     Didn't  I  tell  you  Eue  du  Mail,  at  the  hotel?" 

"He  has  paid,"  said  Gigonnet,  drawing  from  his  pocket- 
book  forty  banknotes. 

A  look  of  despair  passed  over  du  Tillet's  face. 

"You  should  never  look  askance  at  good  money,"  said 
the  impassive  crony  of  du  Tillet;  "it's  unlucky." 

"Where  did'  you  get  this  money,  madame?"  said  the 
banker,  with  a  scowl  at  his  wife,  which  made  her  scarlet  to 
the  roots  of  her  hair. 

"I  have  no  idea  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 

"I  shall  get  to  the  bottom  of  this,"  he  replied,  starting 
up  in  a  fury.  "You  have  upset  my  most  cherished  plans." 

"You  will  upset  your  lunch,"  said  Grigonnet,  laying  hold 
of  the  tablecloth,  which  had  caught  in  the  skirts  of  du  Til- 
let's  dressing-gown. 

Mme.  du  Tillet  rose  with  frigid  dignity,  for  his  words 
had  terrified  her.  She  rang,  and  a  footman  came. 

"My  horses,"  she  said.  "And  send  Virginie;  I  wish  to 
dress. ' ' 

"Where  are  you  going?"  said  du  Tillet. 

"Men  who  have  any  manners  do  not  question  their  wives. 
You  profess  to  be  a  gentleman." 

"You  have  not  been  yourself  for  the  last  two  days,  since 
your  flippant  sister  has  twice  been  to  see  you. ' ' 

"You  ordered  me  to  be  flippant,"  she  said.  "I  am  prac- 
ticing on  you. ' ' 

Grigonnet,  who  took  no  interest  in  family  broils,  saluted 
Mme.  du  Tillet  and  went  out. 

Du  Tillet  looked  fixedly  at  his  wife,  whose  eyes  met  his 
without  wavering. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  said. 


400  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"It  means  that  I  am  no  longer  a  child  to  be  cowed  by 
you,"  she  replied.  "I  am,  and  shall  remain  all  my  life,  a 
faithful,  attentive  wife  to  you;  you  may  be  master  if  you 
like,  but  tyrant,  no." 

Du  Tillet  left  her,  and  Marie-Eugenie  retired  to  her 
room,  quite  unnerved  by  such  an  effort. 

"But  for  my  sister's  danger,"  she  said  to  herself,  "I 
should  never  have  ventured  to  beard  him  thus;  as  the 
proverb  says,  'It's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  no  good.'  ' 

During  the  night  Mme.  du  Tillet  again  passed  in  review 
her  sister's  confidences.  Eaoul's  safety  being  assured,  her 
reason  was  no  longer  overpowered  by  the  thought  of  this 
imminent  danger.  She  recalled  the  alarming  energy  with 
which  the  Countess  had  spoken  of  flying  with  Nathan,  in 
order  to  console  him  in  his  calamity  if  she  could  not  avert 
it.  She  foresaw  how  this  man,  in  the  violence  of  his  grati- 
tude and  love,  might  persuade  her  sister  to  do  what  to  the 
well-balanced  Euge'nie  seemed  an  act  of  madness.  There 
had  been  instances  lately  in  the  best  society  of  such  elope- 
ments, which  pay  the  price  of  a  doubtful  pleasure  in  re- 
morse and  the  social  discredit  arising  out  of  a  false  position, 
and  Eugenie  recalled  to  mind  their  disastrous  results.  Du 
Tillet's  words  had  put  the  last  touch  to  her  panic;  she 
dreaded  discovery;  she  saw  the  signature  of  the  Comtesse 
de  Yandenesse  in  the  archives  of  the  Nucingen  firm,  and 
she  resolved  to  implore  her  sister  to  confess  everything  to 
Felix. 

Mme.  du  Tillet  did  not  find  the  Countess  next  morning ; 
but  Felix  was  at  home.  A  voice  within  called  on  Eugenie 
to  save  her  sister.  To-morrow  even  might  be  too  late.  It 
was  a  heavy  responsibility,  but  she  decided  to  tell  every- 
thing to  the  Count.  Surely  he  would  be  lenient,  since  his 
honor  was  still  safe  and  the  Countess  was  not  so  much  de- 
praved as  misguided.  Eugenie  hesitated  to  commit  what 
seemed  like  an  act  of  cowardice  and  treachery  by  divulg- 
ing secrets  which  society,  at  one  in  this,  universally  re- 
spects. But  then  came  the  thought  of  her  sister's  future, 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  401 

the  dread  of  seeing  her  some  day  deserted,  ruined  by  Na- 
than, poor,  ill,  unhappy,  despairing;  she  hesitated  no 
longer,  and  asked  to  see  the  Count.  Felix,  greatly  sur- 
prised by  this  visit,  had  a  long  conversation  with  his 
sister-in-law,  in  the  course  of  which  he  showed  such  calm 
and  self-mastery  that  Euge'nie  trembled  at  the  desperate 
steps  he  might  be  revolving. 

"Don't  be  troubled,"  said  Yandenesse;  "I  shall  act  so 
that  the  day  will  come  when  your  sister  will  bless  you. 
However  great  your  repugnance  to  keeping  from  her  the 
fact  that  you  have  spoken  to  me,  I  must  ask  you  to  give 
me  a  few  days'  grace.  I  require  this  in  order  to  see  my 
way  through  certain  mysteries,  of  which  you  know  noth- 
ing, and  above  all  to  take  my  measures  with  prudence. 
Possibly  I  may  find  Wt  everything  at  once!  I  am  the 
only  one  to  blame,  dear  sister.  All  lovers  play  their  own 
game,  but  all  women  are  not  fortunate  enough  to  see  life 
as  it  really  is." 



CHAPTER  IX 
A  HUSBAND'S  TRIUMPH 

E.  DU  TILLET  left  Vandenesse's  house  some- 
what  comforted.     Felix,  on  his  part,  went  at  once 
to  draw  forty  thousand  francs  from  the  Bank  of 
France,    and   then    hastened   to   Mme.    de   Nucingen.      He 
found  her  at  home,    thanked    her    for   the   confidence   she 
had  shown  in  his  wife,  and  returned  her  the  money.      He 
gave,  as  the  reason  for  this  mysterious  loan,  an  excessive 
almsgiving,  on  which  he  had  wished  to  impose  some  limit. 
"Do  not  trouble  to  explain,  since  Mme.  de  Vandenesse 
has  told  you  about  it,"  said  the  Baronne  de  Nucingen. 
"She  knows  all,"  thought  Vandenesse. 
The  Baroness  handed  him  his  wife's  guarantee  and  sent 
for  the  four  bills.     Yandenesse,  while  this  was  going  on, 
scanned  the  Baroness  with   the   statesman's  piercing   eye; 


402  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

she  flinched  a  little,  and  he  judged  the  time  had  come  for 
negotiating, 

"We  live,  madame,"  he  said,  "at  a  period  when  nothing 
is  stable.  Thrones  rise  and  disappear  in  France  with  a  dis- 
concerting rapidity.  Fifteen  years  may  see  the  end  of  a 
great  empire,  of  a  monarchy,  and  also  of  a  revolution.  No 
one  can  take  upon  himself  to  answer  for  the  future.  You 
know  my  devotion  to  the  legitimist  party.  Such  words  in 
my  mouth  cannot  surprise  you.  Imagine  a  catastrophe: 
would  it  not  be  a  satisfaction  to  you  to  have  a  friend  on 
the  winning  side?" 

"Undoubtedly,"  she  replied  with  a  smile. 

"Supposing  such  a  case  to  occur,  will  you  have  in  me, 
unknown  to  the  world,  a  grateful  friend,  ready  to  secure 
for  M.  de  Nucingen  under  these  circumstances  the  peerage 
to  which  he  aspires?" 

"What  do  you  ask  from  me?"  she  said. 

"Not  much.  Only  the  facts  in  your  possession  about 
M.  Nathan." 

The  Baroness  repeated  her  conversation  of  the  morning 
with  Rastignac,  and  said  to  the  ex-peer  of  France,  as  she 
handed  him  the  four  bills  which  the  cashier  brought  her: 

"Don't  forget  your  promise." 

So  far  was  Vandenesse  from  forgetting  this  magical 
promise  that  he  dangled  it  before  the  eyes  of  the  Baron 
de  Rastignac  in  order  to  extract  from  him  further  infor- 
mation. 

On  leaving  the  Baron,  he  dictated  to  a  scrivener  the  fol- 
lowing letter  addressed  to  Florine: 

"If  Mile.  Florine  wishes  to  know  what  part  is  awaiting 
her,  will  she  be  so  good  as  come  to  the  approaching  masked 
ball,  and  bring  M.  Nathan  as  her  escort?" 

This  letter  posted,  he  went  next  to  his  man  of  business, 
a  very  acute  fellow,  full  of  resource,  and  withal  honest. 

Him  he  begged  to  personate  a  friend,  to  whom  the  visit 


A    DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  403 

of  Mme.  de  Yandenesse  should  have  been  confided  by 
Schmucke,  aroused  to  a  tardy  suspicion  by  the  fourfold 
repetition  of  the  words,  "I  promise  to  pay  ten  thousand 
francs,"  and  who  should  have  come  to  request  from  M. 
Nathan  a  bill  for  forty  thousand  francs  in  exchange.  It 
was  a  risky  game.  Nathan  might  already  have  learned 
how  the  thing  had  been  arranged,  but  something  had  to 
be  dared  for  so  great  a  prize.  In  her  agitation,  Marie 
might  easily  have  forgotten  to  ask  her  beloved  Eaoul  for 
an  acknowledgment  for  Schmucke.  The  man  of  business 
went  at  once  to  Nathan's  office,  and  returned  triumphant  to 
the  Count  by  five  o'clock  with  the  bill  for  forty  thousand 
francs.  The  very  first  words  exchanged  with  Nathan  had 
enabled  him  to  pass  for  an  emissary  from  the  Countess. 

This  success  obliged  Felix  to  take  steps  for  preventing 
a  meeting  between  Raoul  and  his  wife  before  the  masked 
ball,  whither  he  intended  to  escort  her,  in  order  that  she 
might  discover  for  herself  the  relation  in  which  Nathan 
stood  to  Florine.  He  knew  the  jealous  pride  of  the  Coun- 
tess, and  was  anxious  to  bring  her  to  renounce  the  love 
affair  of  her  own  will,  so  that  she  might  be  spared  from 
humiliation  before  himself.  He  also  hoped  to  show  her 
before  it  was  too  late  her  letters  to  Nathan  sold  by  Flo- 
rine, from  whom  he  reckoned  on  buying  them  back.  This 
prudent  plan,  so  swiftly  conceived  and  in  part  executed, 
was  destined  to  fail  through  one  of  those  chances  to  which 
the  affairs  of  mortals  are  subject.  After  dinner  Felix  turned 
the  conversation  on  the  masked  ball,  remarking  that  Marie 
had  never  been  to  one,  and  proposed  to  take  her  there  the 
following  day  by  way  of  diversion. 

"I  will  find  some  one  for  you  to  mystify." 

"Ah!  I  should  like  that  immensely." 

"To  make  it  really  amusing,  a  woman  ought  to  get  hold 
of  a  foeman  worthy  of  her  steel,  some  celebrity  or  wit,  and 
make  mincemeat  of  him.  What  do  you  say  to  Nathan  ?  A 
man  who  knows  Florine  could  put  me  up  to  a  few  little 
things  that  would  drive  him  wild." 


404  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Morine,"  said  the  Countess,  "the  actress?" 

Marie  had  already  heard  this  name  from  the  lips  of  Quil- 
let the  office  attendant;  a  thought  flashed  through  her  like 
lightning. 

"Well,  yes,  his  mistress,"  replied  the  Count.  "What  is 
there  surprising  in  that  ? ' ' 

"I  should  have  thought  M.  Nathan  was  too  busy  for  such 
things.  How  can  literary  men  find  time  for  love?'  ' 

"I  say  nothing  about  love,  my  dear,  but  they  have  to  lodge 
somewhere,  like  other  people;  and  when  they  have  no  home, 
and  the  bloodhounds  of  the  law  are  after  them,  they  lodge 
with  their  mistresses,  which  may  seem  a  little  strong  to  you, 
but  which  is  infinitely  preferable  to  lodging  in  prison." 

The  fire  was  less  red  than  the  cheeks  of  the  Countess. 

"Would  you  like  him  for  your  victim  ?  You  could  easily 
give  him  a  fright,"  the  Count  went  on,  paying  no  attention  to 
his  wife's  looks.  "I  can  give  you  proofs  by  which  you  can 
show  him  that  he  has  been  a  mere  child  in  the  hands  of  your 
brother-in-law  du  Tillet.  The  wretch  wanted  to  clap  him 
in  prison  in  order  to  disqualify  him  for  opposing  his  candi- 
dature in  Nucingen's  constituency.  I  have  learned  from  a 
friend  of  Florine's  the  amount  produced  by  the  sale  of  her 
furniture,  the  whole  of  which  she  gave  to  Nathan  for  start- 
ing his  paper,  and  I  know  what  portion  was  sent  to  him  of 
the  harvest  which  she  reaped  this  year  in  the  provinces  and 
Belgium;  money  which,  in  the  long  run,  all  goes  into  the 
pockets  of  du  Tillet,  Nucingen,  and  Massol.  These  three 
have  sold  the  paper  in  advance  to  the  Government,  so  con- 
fident are  they  of  dispossessing  the  great  man. ' ' 

"M.  Nathan  would  never  take  money  from  an  actress." 

"You  don't  know  these  people,  my  dear,"  said  the 
Count;  "he  won't  deny  the  fact." 

"I  shall  certainly  go  to   the  ball,"  said  the  Countess. 

"You  will  have  some  fun,"  replied  Vandenesse. 
"Armed  with  such  weapons,  you  will  read  a  sharp  les- 
son to  Nathan's  vanity,  and  it  will  be  a  kindness  to  him. 
You  will  watch  the  ebb  and  flow  of  his  rage,  and  his  writh- 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  405 

ings  under  your  stinging  epigrams.  Your  badinage  will  be 
quite  enough  to  show  a  clever  man  like  him  the  danger  in 
which  he  stands,  and  you  will  have  the  satisfaction  of  get- 
ting a  good  trouncing  for  the  juste  milieu  team  within  their 
own  stables.  .  .  .  You  are  not  listening,  my  child." 

"Yes,  indeed,  1  am  only  too  much  interested,"  she  an- 
swered. "I  will  tell  you  later  why  I  am  so  anxious  to  be 
certain  about  all  this." 

"Certain?"  replied  Vandenesse.  "If  you  keep  on 
your  mask,  I  will  take  you  to  supper  with  Florine  and 
Nathan.  It  will  be  sport  for  a  great  lady  like  you  to  take 
in  an  actress  after  having  kept  a  famous  man  on  the  stretch, 
manoeuvring  round  his  most  precious  secrets;  you  can  har- 
ness them  both  to  the  same  mystification.  I  shall  put  my- 
self on  the  track  of  Nathan's  infidelities.  If  I  can  lay  hold 
of  the  details  of  any  recent  affair,  you  will  be  able  to  in- 
dulge yourself  in  the  spectacle  of  a  courtesan's  rage,  which 
is  worth  seeing.  The  fury  of  Florine  will  seethe  like  an 
Alpine  torrent.  She  adores  Nathan;  he  is  everything  to 
her,  precious  as  the  marrow  of  her  bones,  dear  as  her  cubs 
to  a  lioness.  I  remember  in  my  youth  having  seen  a  cele- 
brated actress,  whose  writing  was  like  a  kitchen-maid's, 
come  to  demand  back  her  letters  from  one  of  my  friends. 
I  have  never  seen  anything  like  it  since;  that  quiet  fury, 
that  impudent  dignity,  that  barbaric  pose.  .  .  .  Are  you 
ill,  Marie?" 

"No!  only  the  fire  is  so  hot." 

The  Countess  went  to  fling  herself  down  on  a  sofa.  All 
at  once  an  incalculable  impulse,  inspired  by  the  consuming 
ache  of  jealousy,  drove  her  to  her  feet.  Trembling  in  every 
limb,  she  crossed  her  arms,  and  advanced  slowly  toward  her 
husband. 

"How  much  do  you  know?"  she  asked.  "It  is  not  like 
you  to  torture  me.  Even  were  I  guilty,  you  would  give  me 
an  easy  death." 

"What  should  I  know,  Marie?" 

"About  Nathan?" 


406  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"You  believe  you  love  him,"  he  replied,  "but  you  love 
only  a  phantom  made  of  words." 

"Then  you  do  know — ?" 

"Everything,"  he  said. 

The  word  fell  like  a  blow  on  Marie's  head. 

"If  you  wish,"  he  continued,  "it  shall  be  as  though  I 
knew  nothing.  My  child,  you  have  fallen  into  an  ab}Tss, 
and  I  must  save  you;  already  I  have  done  something. 
See—" 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  her  guarantee  and  Schmucke's 
four  bills,  which  the  Countess  recognized,  and  threw  them 
into  the  fire. 

"What  would  have  become  of  you,  poor  Marie,  in  three 
months  from  now?  You  would  have  been  dragged  into 
Court  by  bailiffs.  Don't  hang  your  head,  don't  be  ashamed; 
you  have  been  betrayed  by  the  noblest  of  feelings ;  you  have 
trifled,  not  with  a  man,  but  with  your  own  imagination. 
There  is  not  a  woman — not  one,  do  you  hear,  Marie  ? — who 
would  not  have  been  fascinated  in  your  place.  It  would  be 
absurd  that  men,  who,  in  the  course  of  twenty  years,  have 
committed  a  thousand  acts  of  folly,  should  insist  that  a 
woman  is  not  to  lose  her  head  once  in  a  lifetime.  Pray 
Heaven  I  may  never  triumph  over  you  or  burden  you  with 
a  pity  such  as  you  repudiated  with  scorn  the  other  day! 
Possibly  this  wretched  man  was  sincere  when  he  wrote  to 
you,  sincere  in  trying  to  put  an  end  to  himself,  sincere  in 
returning  that  very  evening  to  Florine.  A  man  is  a  poor 
creature  compared  to  a  woman.  I  am  speaking  now  for 
you,  not  for  myself.  I  am  tolerant,  but  society  is  not;  it 
shuns  the  woman  who  makes  a  scandal;  it  will  allow  none 
to  be  rich  at  once  in  its  regard  and  in  the  indulgence  of  pas- 
sion. Whether  this  is  just  or  not,  I  cannot  say.  Enough 
that  the  world  is  cruel.  It  may  be  that,  taken  in  the  mass, 
it  is  harsher  than  are  the  individuals  separately.  A  thief, 
sitting  in  the  pit,  will  applaud  the  triumph  of  innocence,  and 
filch  its  jewels  as  he  goes  out.  Society  has  no  balm  for  the 
ills  it  creates;  it  honors  clever  roguery,  and  leaves  unre- 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  407 

warded  silent  devotion.  All  this  I  see  and  know;  but  if 
I  cannot  reform  the  world,  at  least  I  can  protect  you  from 
yourself.  We  have  here  to  do  with,  a  man  who  brings  you 
nothing  but  trouble,  not  with  a  saintly  and  pious  love,  such 
as  sometimes  commands  self-effacement  and  brings  its  own 
excuse  with  it.  Perhaps  I  have  been  to  blame  in  not  bring- 
ing more  variety  into  your  peaceful  life ;  I  ought  to  have 
enlivened  our  calm  routine  with  the  stir  and  excitement  of 
travel  and  change.  I  can  see  also  an  explanation  of  the  at- 
traction which  drew  you  to  a  man  of  note,  in  the  envy  you 
roused  in  certain  women.  Lady  Dudley,  Mine.  d'Espard, 
Mme.  de  Manerville,  and  my  sister-in-law  Emilie  count  for 
something  in  all  this.  These  women,  whom  I  warned  you 
against,  have  no  doubt  worked  on  your  curiosity,  more  with 
the  object  of  annoying  me  than  in  order  to  precipitate  you 
among  storms  which,  I  trust,  may  have  only  threatened  with- 
out breaking  over  you. ' ' 

The  Countess,  as  she  listened  to  these  generous  words, 
was  tossed  about  by  a  host  of  conflicting  feelings,  but  lively 
admiration  for  Felix  dominated  the  tempest.  A  noble  and 
high-spirited  soul  quickly  responds  to  gentle  handling.  This 
sensitiveness  is  the  counterpart  of  physical  grace.  Marie  ap- 
preciated a  magnanimity  which  sought  in  self -depreciation 
a  screen  for  the  blushes  of  an  erring  woman.  She  made  a 
frantic  motion  to  leave  the  room,  then  turned  back,  fearing 
lest  her  husband  should  misunderstand  and  take  alarm. 

"Wait!"  she  said,  as  she  vanished. 

Felix  had  artfully  prepared  her  defence,  and  he  was  soon 
recompensed  for  his  adroitness;  for  his  wife  returned  with 
the  whole  of  Nathan's  letters  in  her  hand,  and  held  them 
out  to  him. 

"Be  my  judge,"  she  said,  kneeling  before  him. 

"How  can  a  man  judge  where  he  loves  ?"  he  replied. 

He  took  the  letters  and  threw  them  on  the  fire;  later,  the 
thought  that  he  had  read  them  might  have  stood  between 
him  and  his  wife.  Marie,  her  head  upon  his  knees,  burst 
into  tears. 


408  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"Mv  child,  where  are  jours?"  he  said,  raising  her  head. 

At  this  question,  the  Countess  no  longer  felt  the  intoler- 
able burning  of  her  cheeks,  a  cold  chill  went  through  her. 

"That  you  may  not  suspect  your  husband  of  slandering 
the  man  whom  you  have  thought  worthy  of  you,  I  will  have 
those  letters  restored  to  you  by  Florine  herself." 

"Oh!  surely  he  would  give  them  back  if  I  asked  him." 

"And  supposing  he  refused?" 

The  Countess  hung  her  head. 

"The  world  is  horrid,"  she  said;  "I  will  not  go  into  it 
any  more;  I  will  live  alone  with  you,  if  you  forgive  me." 

' '  You  might  weary  again.  Besides,  what  would  the  world 
say  if  you  left  it  abruptly  ?  When  spring  comes,  we  will 
travel,  we  will  go  to  Italy,  we  will  wander  about  Europe, 
until  another  child  comes  to  need  your  care.  We  must  not 
give  up  the  ball  to-morrow,  for  it  is  the  only  way  to  get  hold 
of  your  letters  without  compromising  Ourselves;  and  when 
Florine  brings  them  to  you,  will  not  that  be  the  measure  of 
her  power  ? ' ' 

"And  I  must  see  that?"  said  the  terrified  Countess. 

"To-morrow  night." 

Toward  midnight  next  evening  Nathan  was  pacing  the 
promenade  at  the  masked  ball,  giving  his  arm  to  a  domino 
with  a  very  fair  imitation  of  the  conjugal  manner.  After 
two  or  three  turns  two  masked  women  came  up  to  them. 

"Fool!  you  have  done  for  yourself;  Marie  is  here  and 
sees  you,"  said  Vandenesse,  in  the  disguise  of  a  woman,  to 
Nathan,  while  the  Countess,  all  trembling,  addressed  Florine: 

"If  you  will  listen,  I  will  tell  you  secrets  which  Nathan 
has  kept  from  you,  and  which  will  show  you  the  dangers 
that  threaten  your  love  for  him. ' ' 

Nathan  had  abruptly  dropped  Florine' s  arm  in  order  to 
follow  the  Count,  who  escaped  him  in  the  crowd.  Florine 
went  to  take  a  seat  beside  the  Countess,  who  had  drawn  her 
away  to  a  form  by  the  side  of  Vandenesse,  now  returned  to 
look  after  his  wife. 

"Speak  out,  my  dear,"  said  Florine,  "and  don't  suppose 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  409 

you  can  keep  me  long  on  the  tenter-hooks.  Not  a  creature 
in  the  world  can  get  Raoul  from  me,  I  can  tell  you.  He  is 
bound  to  me  by  habit,  which  is  better  than  love  any  day." 

"In  the  first  place,  are  you  Florine?"  said  Felix,  resum- 
ing his  natural  voice. 

"A  pretty  question  indeed!  If  you  don't  know  who  I 
am,  why  should  I  believe  you,  pray  ?" 

"Go  and  ask  Nathan,  who  is  hunting  now  for  the  mistress 
of  whom  I  speak,  where  he  spent  the  night  three  days  ago ! 
He  tried  to  stifle  himself  with  charcoal,  my  dear,  unknown 
to  you,  because  he  was  ruined.  That's  all  you  know  about 
the  affairs  of  the  man  whom  you  profess  to  love ;  you  leave 
him  penniless,  and  he  kills  himself,  or  rather  he  doesn't,  he 
tries  to  and  fails.  Suicide  when  it  doesn't  come  off  is  much 
on  a  par  with  a  bloodless  duel." 

"It  is  a  lie,"  said  Florine.  "He  dined  with  me  that  day, 
but  not  till  after  sunset.  The  bailiffs  were  after  him,  poor 
boy.  He  was  in  hiding,  that's  all." 

"Well,  you  can  go  and  ask  at  the  Hotel  du  Mail,  Kue  du 
Mail,  whether  he  was  not  brought  there  at  the  point  of  death 
by  a  beautiful  lady,  with  whom  he  has  had  intimate  relations 
for  a  year;  the  letters  of  your  rival  are  hidden  in  your  house, 
under  your  very  nose.  If  you  care  to  catch  Nathan  out,  we 
can  go  all  three  to  your  house ;  there  I  shall  give  you  ocular 
proof  that  you  can  get  him  clear  of  his  difficulties  very  shortly 
if  you  like  to  be  good-natured." 

"That's  not  good  enough  for  Florine,  thank  you,  my 
friend.  I  know  very  well  that  Nathan  can't  have  a  love 
affair." 

"Because,  I  suppose,  he  has  redoubled  his  attentions  to 
you  of  late,  as  if  that  were  not  the  very  proof  that  he  is 
tremendously  in  love — " 

"  With  a  society  woman  ? — Nathan  ? ' '  said  Florine.  ' 4  Oh  1 
I  don't  trouble  about  a  trifle  like  that." 

"Very  well,  would  you  like  him  to  come  and  tell  you 
himself  that  he  won't  take  you  home  this  evening?" 

"If  you  get  him  to  say  that,"  answered  Florine,  "I  will 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC — 18 


410  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

let  you  come  with  me,  and  we  can  hunt  together  for  those 
letters,  which  I  shall  believe  in  when  I  see  them." 

"Stay  here,"  said  Felix,  "and  watch." 

He  took  his  wife's  arm  and  waited  within  a  few  steps  of 
Florine.  Before  long  Nathan,  who  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  promenade,  searching  in  all  directions  for  his 
mask  like  a  dog  who  has  lost  its  master,  returned  to  the 
spot  where  the  mysterious  warning  had  been  spoken.  See- 
ing evident  marks  of  disturbance  on  Raoul's  brow,  Florine 
planted  herself  firmly  in  front  of  him  and  said  in  a  command- 
ing voice:  "You  must  not  leave  me;  I  have  a  reason  for 
wanting  you." 

"Marie!"  whispered  the  Countess,  by  her  husband's  in- 
structions, in  Kaoul's  ear.  -Then  she  added,  "Who  is  that 
woman  ?  Leave  her  immediately,  go  outside,  and  wait  for 
me  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase," 

In  this  terrible  strait,  Raoul  shook  off  roughly  the  arm 
of  Florine,  who  was  quite  unprepared  for  such  violence, 
and,  though  clinging  to  him  forcibly,  was  obliged  to  let  go. 
Nathan  at  once  lost  himself  in  the  crowd. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  cried  Felix  in  the  ear  of  the 
stupefied  Florine,  to  whom  he  offered  his  arm. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "let  us  go,  whoever  you  are.  Have 
you  a  carriage  ? ' ' 

Vandenesse's  only  reply  was  to  hurry  Florine  out  and 
hasten  to  rejoin  his  wife  at  a  spot  agreed  upon  under  the 
colonnade.  In  a  few  minutes  the  three  dominoes,  briskly 
conveyed  by  Vandenesse's  coachman,  arrived  at  the  house 
of  the  actress,  who  took  off  her  mask.  Mme.  de  Yandenesse 
could  not  repress  a  thrill  of  surprise  at  the  sight  of  the  actress, 
boiling  with  rage,  magnificent  in  her  wrath  and  jealousy. 

"There  is,"  said  Vandenesse,  "a  certain  writing-case,  the 
key  of  which  has  never  been  in  your  hands;  the  letters  must 
be  in  it." 

"You  have  me  there;  you  know  something,  at  any  rate, 
which  has  been  bothering  me  for  some  days, ' '  said  Florine, 
dashing  into  the  study  to  fetch  the  writing-case. 


A   DAUGHTER    OF  EVE  411 

Vandenesse  saw  his  wife  grow  pale  under  her  mask. 
Florine's  room  told  more  of  Nathan's  intimacy  with  the 
actress  than  was  altogether  pleasant  for  a  romantic  lady- 
love. A  woman's  eye  is  quick  to  seize  the  truth  in  such 
matters,  and  the  Countess  read  in  the  promiscuous  house- 
hold arrangements  a  confirmation  of  what  Vandenesse  had 
told  her. 

Florine  returned  with  the  case. 

"How  shall  we  open  it?"  she  said. 

Then  she  sent  for  a  large  kitchen  knife,  and  when  her 
maid  brought  it,  brandished  it  with  a  mocking  air,  exclaim- 
ing: "This  is  the  way  to  cut  off  the  pretty  dears'  heads!"  ' 

The  Countess  shuddered.  She  realized  now,  even  more 
than  her  husband's  words  had  enabled  her  to  do  the  evening 
before,  the  depths  from  which  she  had  so  narrowly  escaped. 

"What  a  fool  I  am!"  cried  Florine.  "His  razor  would 
be  better,," 

She  went  to  fetch  the  razor,  which  had  just  served  Nathan 
for  shaving,  and  cut  the  edges  of  the  morocco.  They  fell 
apart,  and  Marie's  letters  appeared.  Florine  took  up  one  at 
random. 

"Sure  enough,  this  is  some  fine  lady's  work!  Only  see 
how  she  can  spell!" 

Vandenesse  took  the  letters  and  handed  them  to  his  wife, 
who  carried  them  to  a  table  in  order  to  see  if  they  were  all 
there. 

"Will  you  give  them  up  for  this?"  said  Vandenesse, 
holding  out  to  Florine  the  bill  for  forty  thousand  francs. 

"What  a  donkey  he  is  to  sign  such  things!  .  .  „  'Bond 
for  bills, '"  cried  Florine,  reading  the  document  "Ah!  yes, 
you  shall  have  your  fill  of  Countesses!  And  I,  who  worked 
myself  to  death,  body  and  soul,  raising  money  in  the  prov- 
inces for  him — I,  who  slaved  like  a  broker  to  save  him! 
That's  a  man  all  over;  go  to  the  devil  for  him,  and  he'll 


1  In    the    French,    "powfefe,"    which    means    "love-letters"    as  well    as 
'chickens." 


412  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

trample  you  underfoot!     I  shall  have  it  out  with  him  for 
this." 

Mme.  de  Vandenesse  had  fled  with  the  letters. 

"Hi,  there!  pretty  domino!  leave  me  one,  if  you  please, 
just  to  throw  in  his  face." 

"That  is  impossible  now,"  said  Vandenesse. 

"And  why,  pray?" 

"The  other  domino  is  your  late  rival." 

"You  don't  say  so!  Well,  she  might  have  said  'Thank 
you!'  "  cried  Florine. 

"And  what  then  do  you  call  the  forty  thousand  francs  ?" 
said  Yandenesse,  with  a  polite  bow. 

It  very  seldom  happens  that  a  young  fellow  who  has  once 
attempted  suicide  cares  to  taste  for  a  second  time  its  discom- 
forts. When  suicide  does  not  cure  a  man  of  life  altogether, 
it  cures  him  of  a  self -sought  death.  Thus  Raoul  no  longer 
thought  of  making  away  with  himself  even  after  Florine's 
possession  of  Schmucke's  guarantee — plainly  through  the 
intervention  of  Vandenesse — had  reduced  him  to  a  still  worse 
plight  than  that  from  which  he  had  tried  to  escape.  He 
made  an  attempt  to  see  the  Countess  again  in  order  to  explain 
to  her  the  nature  of  the  love  which  burned  brighter  than  ever 
in  his  breast.  But  the  first  time  they  met  in  society,  the 
Countess  fixed  Raoul  with  that  stony,  scornful  glance  which 
makes  an  impassable  barrier  between  a  man  and  a  woman. 
With  all  his  audacity,  Nathan  made  no  further  attempt  dur- 
ing the  winter  to  approach  or  address  the  Countess. 

He  unburdened  his  soul,  however,  to  Blondet,  discoursing 
to  him  of  Laura  and  Beatrice,  whenever  the  name  of  Mme. 
de  Vandenesse  occurred.  He  paraphrased  that  beautiful 
passage  of  one  of  the  greatest  poets  of  his  day — "Dream  of 
the  soul,  blue  flower  with  golden  heart,  whose  spreading 
roots,  finer  a  thousand-fold  than  fairies'  silken  tresses,  pierce 
to  the  inmost  being  and  draw  their  life  from  all  that  is  purest 
there:  flower  sweet  and  bitter!  To  uproot  thee  is  to  draw 
the  heart's  blood,  oozing  in  ruddy  drops  from  thy  broken 
stem  I  Ah !  cursed  flower,  how  thou  hast  thriven  on  my  soul  I ' ' 


A    DAUGHTER    OF   EVE  413 

"You're  drivelling,  old  boy,"  said  Blondet.  "I  grant 
you  there  was  a  pretty  enough  flower,  only  it  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  soul ;  and  instead  of  crooning  like  a  blind  man 
before  an  empty  shrine,  you  had  better  be  thinking  how  to 
get  out  of  this  scrape,  so  as  to  put  yourself  straight  with  the 
authorities  and  settle  down.  You  are  too  much  of  the  artist 
to  make  a  politician.  You  have  been  played  on  by  men  who 
are  your  inferiors.  (TO  and  get  yourself  played  on  some 
other  stage." 

"Marie  can't  prevent  my  loving  her,"  said  Nathan.  "She 
shal]  be  my  Beatrice. ' ' 

"My  dear  fellow,  Beatrice  was  a  child  of  twelve,  whom 
Dante  never  saw  again;  otherwise,  would  she  have  been 
Beatrice  ?  If  we  are  to  make  a  divinity  of  a  woman,  we  must 
not  see  her  to-day  in  a  mantle,  to-morrow  in  a  low-necked 
dress,  the  day  after  on  the  Boulevards,  cheapening  toys  for 
her  last  baby.  While  there  is  Florine  handy  to  play  by 
turns  a  comedy  duchess,  a  tragedy  middle-class  wife,  a 
negress,  a  marchioness,  a  colonel,  a  Swiss  peasant  girl, 
a  Peruvian  virgin  of  the  sun  (the  only  virginity  she  knows 
much  about),  1  don't  know  why  one  should  bother  about 
society  women." 

Du  Tillet,  by  means  of  a  forced  sale,  compelled  the  penni- 
less Nathan  to  surrender  his  share  in  the  paper.  The  great 
man  received  only  five  votes  in  the  constituency  which  elected 
du  Tillet. 

When  the  Comtesse  de  Vandenesse,  after  a  long  and 
delightful  time  of  travel  in  Italy,  returned  in  the  following 
winter  to  Paris,  Nathan  had  exactly  carried  out  the  forecast 
of  Felix.  Following  Blondet's  advice,  he  was  negotiating 
with  the  party  in  power.  His  personal  affairs  were  so  em- 
barrassed that,  one  day  in  the  Champs-Elyse'es,  the  Comtesse 
Marie  saw  her  ancient  adorer  walking  in  the  sorriest  plight, 
with  Florine  on  his  arm.  In  the  eyes  of  a  woman,  the  man 
to  whom  she  is  indifferent  is  always  more  or  less  ugly ;  but 
the  man  whom  she  has  ceased  to  love  is  a  monster,  especially 
if  he  is  of  the  type  to  which  Nathan  belonged.  Mme.  de 


414  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Vandenesse  felt  a  pang  of  shame  as  she  remembered  her 
fancy  for  Kaoul.  Had  she  not  been  cured  before  of  any  un- 
lawful passion,  the  contrast  which  this  man,  already  declining 
in  popular  estimation,  then  offered  to  her  husband,  would 
have  sufficed  to  give  the  latter  precedence  over  an  angel. 

At  the  present  day  this  ambitious  author,  of  ready  pen 
but  halting  character,  has  at  last  capitulated  and  installed 
himself  in  a  sinecure  like  any  ordinary  being.  Having  sup- 
ported every  scheme  of  disintegration,  he  now  lives  in  peace 
beneath  the  shade  of  a  ministerial  broad-sheet.  The  Cross 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  fruitful  text  of  his  mockery,  adorns 
his  buttonhole.  Peace  at  any  price,  the  stock-in-trade  of  his 
denunciation  as  editor  of  a  revolutionary  organ,  has  now 
become  the  theme  of  his  laudatory  articles.  The  hereditary 
principle,  butt  of  his  Saint-Simonian  oratory,  is  defended  by 
him  to-day  in  weighty  arguments.  This  inconsistency  has 
its  origin  and  explanation  in  the  change  of  front  of  certain 
men  who,  in  the  course  of  our  latest  political  developments, 
have  acted  as  Kaoul  did. 

JARDIES,  December,  1838. 


LETTERS  OF  TWO  BRIDES 


TO  GEORGE  SAND 

Your  name,  dear  George,  while  casting  a  reflected  radi- 
ance on  my  book,  can  gain  no  new  glory  from  this  page. 
And  yet  it  is  neither  self-interest  nor  diffidence  which  has 
led  me  to  place  it  there,  but  only  the  wish  that  it  should  bear 
witness  to  the  solid  friendship  between  us,  which  has  sur- 
vived our  wanderings  and  separations,  and  triumphed  over 
the  busy  malice  of  the  world.  This  feeling  is  hardly  likely 
now  to  change.  The  goodly  company  of  friendly  names, 
which  will  remain  attached  to  my  works,  forms  an  element  of 
pleasure  in  the  midst  of  the  vexation  caused  by  their  increas- 
ing number.  Each  fresh  book,  in  fact,  gives  rise  to  fresh 
annoyance,  were  it  only  in  the  reproaches  aimed  at  my  too 
prolific  pen,  as  though  it  could  rival  in  fertility  the  world 
from  which  I  draw  my  models  I  Would  it  not  be  a  fine 
thing,  George,  if  the  future  antiquarian  of  dead  literatures 
were  to  find  in  this  company  none  but  great  names  and  gen- 
erous hearts,  friends  bound  by  pure  and  holy  ties,  the  illus- 
trious figures  of  the  century?  May  I  not  justly  pride 
myself  on  this  assured  possession,  rather  than  on  a  popu- 
larity necessarily  unstable  ?  For  him  who  knows  you  well, 
it  is  happiness  to  be  able  to  sign  himself,  as  I  do  here, 

Your  friend,  De  Balzac. 

PAEIS,  June,  1840. 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES 
FIRST    PART 

I 

LOUISE   DE   CHAULIEU   TO   RENEE   DE    MAUCOMBE 

PARIS,  September. 

r^WEETHEART,  I  too  am  free!  And  I  am  the  first 
;  j  too,  unless  you  have  written  to  Blois,  at  our  sweet 
tryst  of  letter-writing. 

Eaise  those  great  black  eyes  of  yours,  fixed  on  my  open- 
ing sentence,  and  keep  this  excitement  for  the  letter  which 
shall  tell  you  of  my  first  love.  By  the  way,  why  always 
"first"?  Is  there,  I  wonder,  a  second  love? 

Don't  go  running  on  like  this,  you  will  say,  but  tell  me 
rather  how  you  made  your  escape  from  the  convent  where 
you  were  to  take  your  vows.  Well,  dear,  I  don't  know 
about  the  Carmelites,  but  the  miracle  of  my  own  deliv- 
erance was,  I  can  assure  you,  most  humdrum.  The  cries 
of  an  alarmed  conscience  triumphed  over  the  dictates  of 
a  stern  policy — there's  the  whole  mystery.  The  sombre 
melancholy  which  seized  me  after  you  left  hastened  the 
happy  climax,  my  aunt  did  not  want  to  see  me  die  of  a 
decline,  and  my  mother,  whose  one  unfailing  cure  for  my 
malady  was  a  novitiate,  gave  way  before  her. 

So  I  am  in  Paris,  thanks  to  you  too,  my  love!  Dear 
Re  nee,  could  you  have  seen  me  the  day  I  found  myself 
parted  from  you,  well  might  you  have  gloried  in  the  deep 
impression  you  had  made  on  so  youthful  a  bosom.  We 
had  lived  so  constantly  together,  sharing  our  dreams  and 
letting  our  fancy  roam  together,  that  I  verily  believe  our 

(417) 


418  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

souls  had  become  welded  together,  like  those  two  Han- 
garian  girls,  whose  death  wo  heard  about  from  M.  Beauvi- 
sage— poor  misnamed  being!  Never  surely  was  man  better 
cut  out  by  nature  for  the  post  of  convent  physician! 

Tell  me,  did  you  not  droop  and  sicken  with  your  darling  ? 

In  my  gloomy  depression,  I  could  do  nothing  but  count 
over  the  ties  which  bind  us.  But  it  seemed  as  though  dis- 
tance had  loosened  them;  I  wearied  of  life,  like  a  turtle-dove 
widowed  of  her  mate.  Death  smiled  sweetly  on  me,  and  I 
was  proceeding  quietly  to  die.  To  be  at  Blois,  at  the  Car- 
melites, consumed  by  dread  of  having  to  take  my  vows  there, 
a  Mile,  de  la  Valliere,  but  without  her  prelude,  and  without 
my  Renee !  How  could  I  not  be  sick — sick  unto  death  ? 

How  different  it  used  to  be !  That  monotonous  existence, 
where  every  hour  brings  its  duty,  its  prayer,  its  task,  with 
such  desperate  regularity  that  you  can  tell  what  a  Carmelite 
sister  is  doing  in  any  place,  at  any  hour  of  the  night  or  day; 
that  deadly  dull  routine,  which  crushes  out  all  interest  in 
one's  surroundings,  had  become  for  us  two  a  world  of  life 
and  movement.  Imagination  had  thrown  open  her  fairy 
realms,  and  in  these  our  spirits  ranged  at  will,  each  in 
turn  serving  as  magic  steed  to  the  other,  the  more  alert 
quickening  the  drowsy;  the  world  from  which  our  bodies 
were  shut  out  became  the  playground  of  our  fancy,  which 
revelled  there  in  frolicsome  adventure.  The  very  "Lives  of 
the  Saints"  helped  us  to  understand  what  was  so  carefully 
left  unsaid !  But  the  day  when  I  was  reft  of  your  sweet 
company,  I  became  a  true  Carmelite,  such  as  they  appeared 
to  us,  a  modern  Danaid,  who,  instead  of  trying  to  fill  a  bot- 
tomless barrel,  draws  every  day,  from  Heaven  knows  what 
deep,  an  empty  pitcher,  thinking  to  find  it  full. 

My  aunt  knew  nothing  of  this  inner  life.  How  should 
she,  who  has  made  a  paradise  for  herself  within  the  two 
acres  of  her  convent,  understand  my  revolt  against  life? 
A  religious  life,  if  embraced  by  girls  of  our  age,  demands 
either  an  extreme  simplicity  of  soul,  such  as  we,  sweet- 
heart, do  not  possess,  or  else  an  ardor  for  self-sacrifice  like 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  419 

that  which  makes  my  aunt  so  noble  a  character.  But  she 
sacrificed  herself  for  a  brother  to  whom  she  was  devoted; 
to  do  the  same  for  an  unknown  person  or  an  idea  is  surely 
more  than  can  be  asked  of  mortals. 

For  the  last  fortnight  I  have  been  gulping  down  so  many 
reckless  words,  burying  so  many  reflections  in  my  bosom,  and 
accumulating  such  a  store  of  things  to  tell,  fit  for  your  ear 
alone,  that  I  should  certainly  have  been  suffocated  but  for 
the  resource  of  letter- writing  as  a  sorry  substitute  for  our 
beloved  talks.  How  hungry  one's  heart  gets!  I  am  be- 
ginning my  journal  this  morning,  and  I  picture  to  myself 
that  yours  is  already  started,  and  that,  in  a  few  days,  I 
shall  be  at  home  in  your  beautiful  Gdmenos  valley,  which 
I  know  only  through  your  descriptions,  just  as  you  will 
live  that  Paris  life,  revealed  to  you  hitherto  only  in  our 
dreattis. 

Well,  then,  sweet  child,  know  that  on  a  certain  morn- 
ing— a  red-letter  day  in  my  life — there  arrived  from  Paris  a 
lady  companion  and  Philippe,  the  last  remaining  of  my 
grandmother's  valets,  charged  to  carry  me  off.  When 
my  aunt  summoned  me  to  her  room  and  told  me  the 
news,  I  could  not  speak  for  joy,  and  only  gazed  at  her 
stupidly. 

"My  child,"  she  said,  in  her  guttural  voice,  "I  can  see 
that  you  leave  me  without  regret,  but  this  farewell  is  not 
the  last;  we  shall  meet  again.  God  has  placed  on  your 
forehead  the  sign  of  the  elect.  You  have  the  pride  which 
leads  to  heaven  or  to  hell,  but  your  nature  is  too  noble  to 
choose  the  downward  path.  I  know  you  better  than  you 
know  yourself;  with  you,  passion,  I  can  see,  will  be  very 
different  from  what  it  is  with  most  women." 

She  drew  me  gently  to  her  and  kissed  my  forehead. 
The  kiss  made  my  flesh  creep,  for  it  burned  with  that 
consuming  fire  which  eats  away  her  life,  which  has  turned 
to  black  the  azure  of  her  eyes,  and  softened  the  lines  about 
them,  has  furrowed  the  warm  ivory  of  her  temples,  and  cast 
a  sallow  tinge  over  the  beautiful  face. 


420  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Before  replying,  I  kissed  her  hands. 

"Dear  aunt,"  I  said,  "I  shall  never  forget  your  kind- 
ness; and  if  it  has  not  made  your  nunnery  all  that  it 
ought  to  be  for  my  health  of  body  and  soul,  you  may  be 
sure  nothing  short  of  a  broken  heart  will  bring  me  back 
again — and  that  you  would  not  wish  for  me.  You  will  not 
see  me  here  again  till  my  royal  lover  has  deserted  me,  and 
I  warn  you  that  if  I  catch  him,  death  alone  shall  tear  him 
from  me.  I  fear  no  Montespan." 

She  smiled  and  said:  "Go,  madcap,  and  take  your  idle 
fancies  with  you.  There  is  certainly  more  of  the  bold 
Montespan  in  you  than  of  the  gentle  la  Valliere." 

I  threw  my  arms  round  her.  The  poor  lady  could  not 
refrain  from  escorting  me  to  the  carriage.  There  her  ten- 
der gaze  was  divided  between  me  and  the  armorial  bearings. 

At  Beaugency  night  overtook  me,  still  sunk  in  a  stupor 
of  the  mind  produced  by  these  strange  parting  words. 
What  can  be  awaiting  me  in  this  world  for  which  I  have 
so  hungered  ? 

To  begin  with,  I  found  no  one  to  receive  me;  my  heart 
had  been  schooled  in  vain.  My  mother  was  at  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne,  my  father  at  the  Council;  my  brother,  the  Due 
de  Rhe'tore',  never  comes  in,  I  am  told,  till  it  is  time  to 
dress  for  dinner.  Miss  Griffith  (she  is  not  unlike  a  griffin) 
and  Philippe  took  me  to  my  rooms. 

The  suite  is  the  one  which  belonged  to  my  beloved 
grandmother,  the  Princesse  de  Vauremont,  to  whom  I  owe 
some  sort  of  a  fortune  which  no  one  has  ever  told  me 
about.  As  you  read  this,  you  will  understand  the  sadness 
which  came  over  me  as  I  entered  a  place  sacred  to  so  many 
memones,  and  found  the  rooms  just  as  she  had  left  them! 
I  was  to  sleep  in  the  bed  where  she  died. 

Sitting  down  on  the  edge  of  her  sofa,  I  burst  into  tears, 
forgetting  I  was  not  alone,  and  remembering  only  how  often 
I  had  stood  there  by  her  knees,  the  better  to  hear  her  words. 
There  I  had  gazed  upon  her  face,  buried  in  its  brown  laces, 
and  worn  as  much  by  age  as  by  the  pangs  of  approaching 


LETTERS    OF   TWO   BRIDES  421 

death.  The  room  seemed  to  me  still  warm  with  the  heat 
which  she  kept  up  there.  How  comes  it  that  Armande- 
Louise-Marie  de  Chaulieu  must  be  like  some  peasant  girl, 
who  sleeps  in  her  mother's  bed  the  very  morrow  of  her 
death  ?  For  to  me  it  was  as  though  the  Princess,  who 
died  in  1817,  had  passed  away  but  yesterday. 

I  saw  many  things  in  the  room  which  ought  to  have 
been  removed.  Their  presence  showed  the  carelessness 
with  which  people,  busy  with  affairs  of  State,  may  treat 
their  own,  and  also  the  little  thought  which  had  been 
given  since  her  death  to  this  grand  old  lady,  who  will 
always  remain  one  of  the  striking  figures  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  Philippe  seemed  to  divine  something  of  the  cause 
of  my  tears.  He  told  me  that  the  furniture  of  the  Princess 
had  been  left  to  me  in  her  will,  and  that  my  father  had  al- 
lowed all  the  larger  suites  to  remain  dismantled,  as  the  Rev- 
olution had  left  them.  On  hearing  this  I  rose,  and  Philippe 
opened  the  door  of  the  small  drawing-room  which  leads'into 
the  reception  rooms. 

In  these  I  found  all  the  well-remembered  wreckage;  the 
panels  above  the  doors,  which  had  contained  valuable  pic- 
tures, bare  of  all  but  empty  frames;  broken  marbles,  mir- 
rors carried  off.  In  old  days  I  was  afraid  to  go  up  the 
state  staircase  and  cross  these  vast,  deserted  rooms;  so  I 
used  to  get  to  the  Princess's  rooms  by  a  small  staircase 
which  runs  under  the  arch  of  the  larger  one  and  leads  to 
the  secret  door  of  her  dressing-room. 

My  suite,  consisting  of  a  drawing-room,  bedroom,  and 
the  pretty  morning-room  in  scarlet  and  gold,  of  which  I 
have  told  you,  lies  in  the  wing  on  the  side  of  the  Inva- 
lides.  The  house  is  only  separated  from  the  boulevard  by 
a  wall,  covered  with  creepers,  and  by  a  splendid  avenue  of 
trees,  which  mingle  their  foliage  with  that  of  the  young 
elms  on  the  sidewalk  of  the  boulevard.  But  for  the  blue- 
and-gold  dome  of  the  Invalides  and  its  gray  stone  mass, 
you  might  be  in  a  wood. 

The  style  of  decoration  in  these  rooms,   together  with 


422  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

their  situation,  indicates  that  they  were  the  old  show  suite 
of  the  duchesses,  while  the  dukes  must  have  had  theirs  in 
the  wing  opposite.  The  two  suites  are  decorously  separated 
by  the  two  main  blocks,  as  well  as  by  the  central  one,  which 
contains  those  vast,  gloomy,  resounding  halls  shown  me  by 
Philippe,  all  despoiled  of  their  splendor,  as  in  the  days  of 
my  childhood. 

Philippe  grew  quite  confidential  when  he  saw  the  sur- 
prise depicted  on  my  countenance.  For  you  must  know 
that  in  this  home  of  diplomacy  the  very  servants  have  a 
reserved  and  mysterious  air.  He  went  on  to  tell  me  that 
it  was  expected  a  law  would  soon  be  passed  restoring  to 
the  fugitives  of  the  Revolution  the  value  of  their  property, 
and  that  my  father  is  waiting  to  do  up  his  house  till  this 
restitution  is  made,  the  king's  architect  having  estimated 
the  damage  at  three  hundred  thousand  livres. 

This  piece  of  news  flung  me  back  despairing  on  my 
drawing-room  sofa.  Could  it  be  that  my  father,  instead 
of  spending  this  money  in  arranging  a  marriage  for  me, 
would  have  left  me  to  die  in  the  convent?  This  was  the 
first  thought  to  greet  me  on  the  threshold  of  my  home. 

Ah!  Ren^e,  what  would  I  have  given  then  to  rest  my 
head  upon  your  shoulder,  or  to  transport  myself  to  the 
days  when  my  grandmother  made  the  life  of  these  rooms  ? 
You  two  in  all  the  world  have  been  alone  in  loving  me — 
you  away  at  Maucombe,  and  she  who  survives  only  in  my 
heart,  the  dear  old  lady,  whose  still  youthful  eyes  used  to 
open  from  sleep  at  my  call.  How  well  we  understood  each 
other ! 

These  memories  suddenly  changed  my  mood.  What  at 
first  had  seemed  profanation,  now  breathed  of  holy  associa- 
tion. It  was  sweet  to  inhale  the  faint  odor  of  the  powder 
she  loved  still  lingering  in  the  room;  sweet  to  sleep  beneath 
the  shelter  of  those  yellow  damask  curtains  with  their  white 
pattern,  which  must  have  retained  something  of  the  spirit 
emanating  from  her  eyes  and  breath.  I  told  Philippe  to 
rub  up  the  old  furniture  and  make  the  rooms  look  as  if 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  423 

they  were  lived  in;  I  explained  to  him  myself  how  I 
wanted  everything  arranged,  and  where  to  put  each  piece 
of  furniture.  In  this  way  I  entered  into  possession,  and 
showed  how  an  air  of  youth  might  be  given  to  the  dear 
old  things. 

The  bedroom  is  white  in  color,  a  little  dulled  with  time, 
just  as  the  gilding  of  the  fanciful  arabesques  shows  here  and 
there  a  patch  of  red;  but  this  effect  harmonizes  well  with 
the  faded  colors  of  the  Savonnerie  tapestry,  which  was 
presented  to  my  grandmother  by  Louis  XV.  along  with 
his  portrait.  The  timepiece  was  a  gift  from  the  Marechal 
da  Saxe,  and  the  china  ornaments  on  the  mantel-piece  came 
from  the  Mare'chal  de  Eichelieu.  My  grandmother's  por- 
trait, painted  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  hangs  in  an  oval 
frame  opposite  that  of  the  King.  The  Prince,  her  husband, 
is  conspicuous  by  his  absence.  I  like  this  frank  negligence, 
un tinged  by  hypocrisy — a  characteristic  touch  which  sums 
up  her  charming  personality.  Once  when  my  grandmother 
was  seriously  ill,  her  confessor  was  urgent  that  the  Prince, 
who  was  waiting  in  the  drawing-room,  should  be  admitted. 

"He  can  come  in  with  the  doctor  and  his  drugs,"  was 
the  reply. 

The  bed  has  a  canopy  and  well-stuffed  back,  and  the 
curtains  are  looped  up  with  fine  wide  bands.  The  fur- 
niture is  of  gilded  wood,  upholstered  in  the  same  yellow 
damask  with  white  flowers  which  drapes  the  windows,  and 
which  is  lined  there  with  a  white  silk  that  looks  as  though 
it  were  watered.  The  panels  over  the  doors  have  been 
painted,  by  what  artist  I  can't  say,  but  they  represent  one 
a  sunrise,  the  other  a  moonlight  scene. 

The  fireplace  is  a  very  interesting  feature  in  the  room. 
It  is  easy  to  see  that  life  in  the  last  century  centred  largely 
round  the  hearth,  where  great  events  were  enacted,,  The 
copper-gilt  grate  is  a  marvel  of  workmanship,  and  the  man- 
tel-piece is  most  delicately  finished;  the  fire-irons  are  beauti- 
fully chased;  the  bellows  are  a  perfect  gem.  The  tapestry 
of  the  screen  comes  from  the  Gobelins  and  is  exquisitely 


BALZAC'S    WORKS 

mounted;  charming  fantastic  figures  run  all  over  the  frame, 
on  the  feet,  the  supporting  bar,  and  the  wings;  the  whole 
thing  is  wrought  like  a  fan. 

Dearly  should  I  like  to  know  who  was  the  giver  of  this 
dainty  work  of  art,  which  was  such  a  favorite  with  her. 
How  often  have  I  seen  the  old  lady,  her  feet  upon  the  bar, 
reclining  in  the  easy-chair,  with  her  dress  half  raised  in  front, 
toying  with  the  snuff-box,  which  lay  upon  the  ledge  between 
her  box  of  pastilles  and  her  silk  mits.  What  a  coquette  she 
was !  To  the  day  of  her  death  she  took  as  much  pains  with 
her  appearance  as  though  the  beautiful  portrait  had  been 
painted  only  yesterday,  and  she  were  waiting  to  receive  the 
throng  of  exquisites  from  the  Court!  How  the  armchair 
recalls  to  me  the  inimitable  sweep  of  her  skirts  as  she  sank 
back  in  it! 

These  women  of  a  past  generation  have  carried  off  with 
them  secrets  which  are  very  typical  of  their  age.  The  Prin- 
cess had  a  certain  turn  of  the  head,  a  way  of  dropping  her 
glances  and  her  remarks,  a  choice  of  words,  which  I  look 
for  in  vain,  even  in  my  mother.  There  was  subtlety  in  it 
all,  and  there  was  good-nature;  the  points  were  made  with- 
out any  affectation.  Her  talk  was  at  once  lengthy  and  con- 
cise; she  told  a  good  story,  and  could  put  her  meaning  in 
three  words.  Above  all,  she  was  extremely  free-thinking, 
and  this  has  undoubtedly  had  its  effect  on  my  way  of  looking 
at  things. 

From  seven  years  old  till  I  was  ten,  I  never  left  her  side; 
it  pleased  her  to  attract  me  as  much  as  it  pleased  me  to  go. 
This  preference  was  the  cause  of  more  than  one  passage  at 
arms  between  her  and  my  mother,  and  nothing  intensifies 
feeling  like  the  icy  breath  of  persecution.  How  charming 
washer  greeting,  "Here  you  are,  little  rogue!"  when  curi- 
osity had  taught  me  how  to  glide  with  stealthy  snake-like 
movements  to  her  room.  She  felt  that  I  loved  her,  and  this 
childish  affection  was  welcome  as  a  ray  of  sunshine  in  the 
winter  of  her  life. 

I  don't  know  what  went  on  in  her  rooms  at  night,  but  she 


LETTERS    OF   TWO   BRIDES  425 

had  many  visitors ;  and  when  I  came  on  tiptoe  in  the  morn- 
ing to  see  if  she  were  awake,  I  would  find  the  drawing-room 
furniture  disarranged,  the  card-tables  set  out,  and  patches 
of  snuff  scattered  about. 

This  drawing-room  is  furnished  in  the  same  style  as  the 
bedroom.  The  chairs  and  tables  are  oddly  shaped,  with  claw 
feet  and  hollow  moldings.  Eich  garlands  of  flowers,  beauti- 
fully designed  and  carved,  wind  over  the  mirrors  and  hang 
down  in  festoons.  On  the  consoles  are  fine  china  vases. 
The  ground  colors  are  scarlet  and  white.  My  grandmother 
was  a  high-spirited,  striking  brunette,  as  might  be  inferred 
from  her  choice  of  colors.  I  have  found  in  the  drawing- 
room  a  writing-table  I  remember  well;  the  figures  on  it 
used  to  fascinate  me;  it  is  plaited  in  graven  silver,  and 
was  a  present  from  one  of  the  Genoese  Lomellini.  Each 
side  of  the  table  represents  the  occupations  of  a  different 
season;  there  are  hundreds  of  figures  in  each  picture,  and 
all  in  relief. 

I  remained  alone  for  two  hours,  while  old  memories  rose 
before  me,  one  after  another,  on  this  spot,  hallowed  by  the 
death  of  a  woman  most  remarkable  even  among  the  witty 
and  beautiful  Court  ladies  of  Louis  XV. 's  day. 

You  know  how  abruptly  I  was  parted  from  her,  at  a 
day's  notice,  in  1816. 

"Go  and  bid  good-by  to  your  grandmother,"  said  my 
mother. 

The  Princess  received  me  as  usual,  without  any  display 
of  feeling,  and  expressed  no  surprise  at  my  departure. 

"You  are  going  to  the  convent,  dear,"  she  said,  "and  will 
see  your  aunt  there,  who  is  an  excellent  woman.  I  shall 
take  care,  though,  that  they  don't  make  a  victim  of  you; 
you  shall  be  independent,  and  able  to  marry  whom  you 
please. ' ' 

Six  months  later  she  died.  Her  will  had  been  given  into 
the  keeping  of  the  Prince  de  Talleyrand,  the  most  devoted 
of  all  her  old  friends.  He  contrived,  while  paying  a  visit 
to  Mile,  de  Chargeboeuf,  to  intimate  to  me,  through  her,  that 


426  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

my  grandmother  forbade  me  to  take  the  vows.  I  hope,  sooner 
or  later,  to  meet  the  Prince,  and  then  I  shall  doubtless  learn 
more  from  him. 

Thus,  sweetheart,  if  I  have  found  no  one  in  flesh  and 
blood  to  meet  me,  I  have  comforted  myself  with  Jhe  shade 
of  the  dear  Princess,  and  have  prepared  myself  for  carrying 
out  one  of  our  pledges,  which  was,  as  you  know,  to  keep 
each  other  informed  of  the  smallest  details  in  our  homes  and 
occupations.  It  makes  such  a  difference  to  know  where  and 
how  the  life  of  one  we  love  is  passed !  Send  me  a  faithful 
picture  of  the  veriest  trifles  around  you,  omitting  nothing, 
not  even  the  sunset  lights  among  the  tall  trees. 

October  10th. 

It  was  three  in  the  afternoon  when  I  arrived.  About 
half -past  five,  Rose  came  and  told  me  that  my  mother  had 
returned,  so  I  went  downstairs  to  pay  my  respects  to  her. 

My  mother  lives  in  a  suite  on  the  ground  floor,  exactly 
corresponding  to  mine,  and  in  the  same  block.  I  am  just 
over  her  head,  and  the  same  secret  staircase  serves  for  both. 
My  father's  rooms  are  in  the  block  opposite,  but  are  larger 
by  the  whole  of  the  space  occupied  by  the  grand  staircase 
on  our  side  of  the  building.  These  ancestral  mansions  are 
so  spacious  that  my  father  and  mother  continue  to  occupy 
the  ground-floor  rooms,  in  spite  of  the  social  duties  which 
have  once  more  devolved  on  them  with  the  return  of  the 
Bourbons,  and  are  even  able  to  receive  in  them. 

I  found  my  mother,  dressed  for  the  evening,  in  her  draw- 
ing-room, where  nothing  is  changed.  I  came  slowly  down 
the  stairs,  speculating  with  every  step  how  I  should  be  met 
by  this  mother  who  had  shown  herself  so  little  of  a  mother 
to  me,  and  from  whom,  during  eight  years,  I  had  heard 
nothing  beyond  the  two  letters  of  which  you  know.  Judg- 
ing it  unworthy  to  simulate  an  affection  I  could  not  possibly 
feel,  1  put  on  the  air  of  a  pious  imbecile,  and  entered  the 
room  with  many  inward  qualms,  which,  however,  soon  dis- 
appeared. My  mother's  tact  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  She 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  427 

made  no  pretence  of  emotion;  she  neither  held  me  at  arm's- 
length  nor  hugged  me  to  her  bosom  like  a  beloved  daughter, 
but  greeted  me  as  though  we  had  parted  the  evening  before. 
Her  manner  was  that  of  the  kindliest  and  most  sincere  friend, 
as  she  addressed  me  like  a  grown  person,  first  kissing  me  on 
the  forehead. 

"My  dear  little  one,"  she  said,  "if  you  were  to  die  at  the 
convent,  it  is  much  better  to  live  with  your  family.  You 
frustrate  your  father's  plans  and  mine;  but  the  age  of  blind 
obedience  to  parents  is  past.  M.  de  Chaulieu's  intention, 
and  in  this  I  am  quite  at  one  with  him,  is  to  lose  no  oppor- 
tunity of  making  your  life  pleasant  and  of  letting  you  see 
the  world.  At  your  age  I  should  have  thought  as  you  do, 
therefore  I  am  not  vexed  with  you;  it  is  impossible  you 
should  understand  what  we  expected  from  you.  You  will 
not  find  any  absurd  severity  in  me,  and  if  you  have  ever 
thought  me  heartless,  you  will  soon  find  out  your  mistake. 
Still,  though  I  wish  you  to  feel  perfectly  free,  I  think  that, 
to  begin  with,  you  would  do  well  to  follow  the  counsels  of 
a  mother  who  wishes  to  be  a  sister  to  you." 

1  was  quite  charmed  by  the  Duchess,  who  talked  in  a 
gentle  voice,  straightening  my  convent  tippet  as  she  spoke. 
At  the  age  of  thirty-eight  she  is  still  exquisitely  beautiful. 
She  has  dark-blue  eyes,  with  silken  lashes,  a  smooth  fore- 
head, and  a  complexion  so  pink  and  white  that  you  might 
think  she  paints.  Her  bust  and  shoulders  are  marvellous, 
and  her  waist  is  as  slender  as  yours.  Her  hand  is  milk-white 
and  extraordinarily  beautiful,  the  nails  catch  the  light  in 
their  perfect  polish,  the  thumb  is  like  ivory,  the  little  finger 
stands  just  a  little  apart  from  the  rest.  And  the  foot  matches 
the  hand ;  it  is  the  Spanish  foot  of  Mile,  de  Vandenesse.  If 
she  is  like  this  at  forty,  at  sixty  she  will  still  be  a  beautiful 
woman. 

I  replied,  sweetheart,  like  a  good  little  girl.  I  was  as  nice 
to  her  as  she  to  me,  nay,  nicer.  Her  beauty  completely  van- 
quished me;  it  seemed  only  natural  that  such  a  woman  should 
be  absorbed  in  her  regal  part.  I  told  her  this  as  simply  as 


428  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

though  I  had  been  talking  to  you.  I  daresay  it  was  a  sur- 
prise to  her  to  hear  words  of  affection  from  her  daughter's 
mouth,  and  the  unfeigned  homage  of  my  admiration  evi- 
dently touched  her  deeply.  Her  manner  changed  and  be- 
came even  more  engaging;  she  dropped  all  formality  as  she 
said:  "I  am  much  pleased  with  you,  and  I  hope  we  shall 
remain  good  friends. ' ' 

The  words  struck  me  as  charmingly  naive,  but  I  did  not 
let  this  appear,  for  I  saw  at  once  that  the  prudent  course  was 
to  allow  her  to  believe  herself  much  deeper  and  cleverer  than 
her  daughter.  So  I  only  stared  vacantly  and  she  was  de- 
lighted. I  kissed  her  hands  repeatedly,  telling  her  how 
happy  it  made  me  to  be  so  treated  and  to  feel  at  my  ease 
with  her.  I  even  confided  to  her  rny  previous  tremors.  She 
smiled,  put  her  arm  round  my  neck,  and  drawing  me  toward 
her,  kissed  me  on  the  forehead  most  affectionately. 

"Dear  child,"  she  said,  "we  have  people  coming  to  din- 
ner to-day.  Perhaps  you  will  agree  with  me  that  it  is  better 
for  you  not  to  make  your  first  appearance  in  society  till  you 
have  been  in  the  dressmaker's  hands;  so,  after  you  have  seen 
your  father  and  brother,  you  can  go  upstairs  again." 

I  assented  most  heartily.  My  mother's  exquisite  dress 
was  the  first  revelation  to  me  of  the  world  which  our  dreams 
had  pictured;  but  I  did  not  feel  the  slightest  desire  to  rival 
her. 

My  father  now  entered,  and  the  Duchess  presented  me 
to  him. 

He  became  all  at  once  most  affectionate,  and  played  the 
father's  part  so  well  that  I  could  not  but  believe  his  heart 
to  be  in  it.  Taking  my  two  hands  in  his,  and  kissing  them, 
with  more  of  the  lover  than  the  father  in  his  manner,  he 
said:  "So  this  is  my  rebel  daughter !:) 

And  he  drew  me  toward  him,  with  his  arm  passed  ten- 
derly round  my  waist,  while  he  kissed  me  on  the  cheeks  and 
forehead. 

"The  pleasure  with  which  we  shall  watch  your  success 
in  society  will  atone  for  the  disappointment  we  felt  at  your 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  429 

change  of  vocation,"  he  said.  Then,  turning  to  my  mother, 
"Do  you  know  that  she  is  going  to  turn  out  very  pretty,  and 
you  will  be  proud  of  her  some  day  ? — Here  is  your  brother 
Rhe'tore'. — Alphonse,"  he  said  to  a  fine  young  man  who  came 
in,  "here  is  your  convent-bred  sister,  who  threatens  to  send 
her  nun's  frock  to  the  deuce." 

My  brother  came  up  in  a  leisurely  way  and  took  my  hand, 
which  he  pressed. 

"Come,  come,  you  may  kiss  her,"  said  my  father. 

And  he  kissed  me  on  both  cheeks. 

"I  am  delighted  to  see  you,"  he  said,  "and  I  take  your 
side  against  my  father." 

I  thanked  him,  but  could  not  help  thinking  he  might  have 
come  to  Blois  when  he  was  at  Orleans  visiting  our  Marquis 
brother  in  his  quarters. 

Fearing  the  arrival  of  strangers,  I  now  withdrew.  I 
tidied  up  my  rooms,  and  laid  out  on  the  scarlet  velvet  of 
my  lovely  table  all  the  materials  necessary  for  writing  to 
you,  meditating  all  the  while  on  my  new  situation. 

This,  my  fair  sweetheart,  is  a  true  and  veracious  account 
of  the  return  of  a  girl  of  eighteen,  after  an  absence  of  nine 
years,  to  the  bosom  of  one  of  the  noblest  families  in  the 
kingdom.  I  was  tired  by  the  journey  as  well  as  by  all  the 
emotions  I  had  been  through,  so  I  went  to  bed  in  convent 
fashion,  at  eight  o'clock,  after  supper.  They  have  preserved 
even  a  little  Saxe  service  which  the  dear  Princess  used  when 
she  had  a  fancy  for  taking  her  meals  alone. 


430  BALZACTS    WORKS 

II 

THE   SAME   TO  THE   SAME 

November  25fh. 

T\  "T  EXT  DA  Y  I  found  my  rooms  done  out  and  dusted, 

/  \f      and  even  flowers  put  in  the  vases,  by  old  Philippe. 

I  begin  to  feel  at  home.     Only  it  didn't  occur  to 

anybody  that  a  Carmelite  schoolgirl  has  an  early  appetite, 

and  Eose  had  no  end  of  trouble  in  getting  breakfast  for  me. 

"Mile,  goes  to  bed  at  dinner-time,"  she  said  to  me,  "and 
gets  up  when  the  Duke  is  just  returning  home/' 

I  began  to  write.  About  one  o'clock  my  father  knocked 
at  the  door  of  the  small  drawing-room  and  asked  if  he  might 
come  in.  I  opened  the  door;  he  came  in,  and  found  me 
writing  to  you. 

"My  dear,"  he  began,  "you  will  have  to  get  yourself 
clothes,  and  to  make  these  rooms  comfortable.  In  this  purse 
you  will  find  twelve  thousand  francs,  which  is  the  yearly  in- 
come I  propose  allowing  you  for  your  expenses.  You  will 
make  arrangements  with  your  mother  as  to  some  governess 
whom  you  may  like,  in  case  Miss  Griffith  doesn't  please  you, 
for  Mme.  de  Chaulieu  will  not  have  time  to  go  out  with  you 
in  the  mornings.  A  carriage  and  manservant  shall  be  at 
your  disposal." 

"Let  me  keep  Philippe,"  I  said. 

"So  be  it,"  he  replied.  "But  don't  be  uneasy;  you  have 
money  enough  of  your  own  to  be  no  burden  either  to  your 
mother  or  rne. ' ' 

"May  I  ask  how  much  I  have  ?" 

4 '  Certainly,  my  child, ' '  he  said.  4 '  Your  grandmother  left 
you  five  hundred  thousand  francs ;  this  was  the  amount  of 
her  savings,  for  she  would  not  alienate  a  foot  of  land  from 
the  family.  This  sum  has  been  placed  in  Government  stock, 
and,  with  the  accumulated  interest,  now  brings  in  about  forty 


LETTERS    OF    TWO   BRIDES  431 

thousand  francs  a  year.  With  this  I  had  purposed  making 
an  independence  for  your  second  brother,  and  it  is  here  that 
you  have  upset  my  plans.  Later,  however,  it  is  possible 
that  you  may  fall  in  with  them.  It  shall  rest  with  yourself, 
for  I  have  confidence  in  your  good  sense  far  more  than  I  had 
expected. 

"  I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  how  a  daughter  of  the  Chau- 
lieus  ought  to  behave.  The  pride  so  plainly  written  in  your 
features  is  my  best  guarantee.  Safeguards,  such  as  common 
folk  surround  their  daughters  with,  would  be  an  insult  in  our 
family.  A  slander  reflecting  on  your  name  might  cost  the 
life  of  the  man  bold  enough  to  utter  it,  or  the  life  of  one  of 
your  brothers,  if  by  chance  the  right  should  not  prevail.  No 
more  on  this  subject.  Good-by,  little  one." 

He  kissed  me  on  the  forehead  and  went  out.  I  cannot 
understand  the  relinquishment  of  this  plan  after  nine  years' 
persistence  in  it.  My  father's  frankness  is  what  I  like. 
There  is  no  ambiguity  about  his  words.  My  money  ought 
to  belong  to  his  Marquis  son.  Who,  then,  has  had  bowels 
of  mercy  ?  My  mother  ?  My  father  ?  Or  could  it  be  my 
brother  ? 

I  remained  sitting  on  my  grandmother's  sofa,  staring  at 
the  purse  which  my  father  had  left  on  the  mantel-piece,  at 
once  pleased  and  vexed  that  I  could  not  withdraw  my  mind 
from  the  money.  It  is  true,  further  speculation  was  useless. 
My  doubts  had  been  cleared  up  and  there  was  something  fine 
in  the  way  my  pride  was  spared. 

Philippe  has  spent  the  morning  rushing  about  among  the 
various  shops  and  workpeople  who  are  to  undertake  the  task 
of  my  metamorphosis.  A  famous  dressmaker,  by  name  Vic- 
torine,  has  come,  as  well  as  a  woman  for  underclothing,  and 
a  shoemaker.  I  am  as  impatient  as  a  child  to  know  what  I 
shall  be  like  when  I  emerge  from  the  sack  which  constituted 
the  conventual  uniform;  but  all  these  tradespeople  take  a 
long  time;  the  corset-maker  requires  a  whole  week  if  my 
figure  is  not  to  be  spoiled.  You  see,  I  have  a  figure,  dear; 
this  becomes  serious.  Janssen,  the  Operatic  shoemaker,  sol- 


432  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

emnly  assures  me  that  I  have  my  mother's  foot.  The  whole 
morning  has  gone  in  these  weighty  occupations.  Even  a 
glovemaker  has  come  to  take  the  measure  of  my  hand.  The 
underclothing  woman  has  got  my  orders. 

At  the  meal  which  I  call  dinner,  and  the  others  lunch, 
my  mother  told  me  that  we  were  going  together  to  the  mil- 
liner's to  see  some  hats,  so  that  my  taste  should  be  formed, 
and  I  might  be  in  a  position  to  order  my  own. 

This  burst  of  independence  dazzles  me.  I  am  like  a  blind 
man  who  has  just  recovered  his  sight.  Now  I  begin  to  un- 
derstand the  vast  interval  which  separates  a  Carmelite  sister 
from  a  girl  in  society.  Of  ourselves  we  could  never  have 
conceived  it. 

During  this  lunch  my  father  seemed  absent-minded,  and 
we  left  him  to  his  thoughts;  he  is  deep  in  the  King's  confi- 
dence. I  was  entirely  forgotten ;  but,  from  what  I  have  seen, 
I  have  no  doubt  he  will  remember  me  when  he  has  need  of 
me.  He  is  a  very  attractive  man  in  spite  of  his  fifty  years. 
His  figure  is  youthful ;  he  is  well  made,  fair,  and  extremely 
graceful  in  his  movements.  He  has  the  diplomatic  face,  at 
once  dumb  and  expressive;  his  nose  is  long  and  slender,  and 
he  has  brown  eyes. 

"What  a  handsome  pair!  Strange  thoughts  assail  me  as 
it  becomes  plain  to  me  that  these  two,  so  perfectly  matched 
in  birth,  wealth,  and  mental  superiority,  live  entirely  apart, 
and  have  nothing  in  common  but  their  name.  The  show  of 
unity  is  only  for  the  world. 

The  cream  of  the  Court  and  diplomatic  circles  were  here 
last  night.  Very  soon  I  am  going  to  a  ball  given  by  the 
Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse,  and  I  shall  be  presented  to  the 
society  I  am  so  eager  to  know.  A  dancing-master  is  coming 
every  morning  to  give  me  lessons,  for  I  must  be  able  to  dance 
in  a  month,  or  I  can't  go  to  the  ball. 

Before  dinner,  my  mother  came  to  talk  about  the  govern- 
ess with  me.  I  have  decided  to  keep  Miss  Griffith,  who  was 
recommended  by  the  English  ambassador.  Miss  Griffith  is 
the  daughter  of  a  clergyman ;  her  mother  was  of  good  family, 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    PRIDES  483 

and  she  is  perfectly  well  bred.  She  is  thirty -six,  and  will 
teach  me  English.  The  good  soul  is  quite  handsome  enough, 
to  have  ambitions;  she  is  Scotch — poor  and  proud — and  will 
act  as  my  chaperon.  She  is  to  sleep  in  Eose's  room.  Eose 
will  be  under  her  orders.  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  my  govern- 
ess would  be  governed  by  me.  In  the  six  days  we  have  been 
together,  she  has  made  very  sure  that  I  am  the  only  person 
likely  to  take  an  interest  in  her;  while,  for  my  part,  I  have 
ascertained  that,  for  all  her  statuesque  features,  she  will 
prove  accommodating.  She  seems  to  me  a  kindly  soul,  but 
cautious.  I  have  not  been  able  to  extract  a  word  of  what 
passed  between  her  and  my  n?  '.>ther. 

Another  trifling  piece  of  news!  My  father  has  this  morn- 
ing refused  the  appointment  as  Minister  of  State  which  was 
offered  him.  This  accounts  for  his  preoccupied  manner  last 
night.  He  says  he  would  prefer  an  embassy  to  the  worries 
of  public  debate,  Spain  in  especial  attracts  him, 

This  news  was  told  me  at  lunch,  the  one  moment  of  the 
day  when  my  father,  mother,  and  brother  see  each  other  in 
an  easy  way.  The  servants  then  only  come  when  they  are 
rung  for.  The  rest  of  the  day  my  brother,  as  well  as  my 
father,  spends  out  of  the  house.  My  mother  has  her  toilet 
to  make ;  between  two  and  four  she  is  never  visible ;  at  four 
o'clock  she  goes  out  for  an  hour's  drive;  when  she  is  not 
dining  out,  she  receives  from  six  to  seven,  and  the  evening 
is  given  to  entertainments  of  various  kinds — theatres,  balls, 
concerts,  at  homes.  In  short,  her  life  is  so  fall  that  I  don't 
believe  she  ever  has  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  herself.  She 
must  spend  a  considerable  time  dressing  in  the  morning;  for 
at  lunch,  which  takes  place  between  eleven  and  twelve,  she 
is  exquisite.  The  meaning  of  the  things  that  are  said  about 
her  is  dawning  on  me.  She  begins  the  day  with  a  bath  barely 
warmed,  and  a  cup  of  cold  coffee  with  cream;  then  she 
dresses.  She  is  never,  except  on  some  great  emergency, 
called  before  nine  o'clock.  In  summer  there  are  morning 
rides,  and  at  two  o'clock  she  receives  a  young  man  whom  I 
have  never  yet  contrived  to  see. 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC— 19 


434  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Behold  our  family  life !  We  meet  at  lunch  and  dinner, 
though  often  I  am  alone  with  my  mother  at  this  latter  meal, 
and  I  foresee  that  still  oftener  I  shall  take  it  in  my  own 
rooms  (following  the  example  of  my  grandmother)  with  only 
Miss  Griffith  for  company,  for  my  mother  frequently  dines 
out.  I  have  ceased  to  wonder  at  the  indifference  my  family 
have  shown  to  me.  In  Paris,  my  dear,  it  is  a  miracle  of 
virtue  to  love  the  people  who  live  with  you,  for  you  see  little 
enough  of  them;  as  for  the  absent — they  do  not  exist! 

Knowing  as  this  may  sound,  I  have  not  yet  set  foot  in 
the  streets,  and  am  deplorably  ignorant.  I  must  wait  till 
I  am  less  of  the  country  cous.'n  and  have  brought  my  dress 
and  deportment  into  keeping  with  the  society  I  am  about 
to  enter,  the  whirl  of  which  amazes  me  even  here,  where  only 
distant  murmurs  reach  my  ear.  So  far  I  have  not  gone  be- 
yond the  garden ;  but  the  Italian  opera  opens  in  a  few  days, 
and  my  mother  has  a  box  there.  I  am  crazy  with  delight 
at  the  thought  of  hearing  Italian  music  and  seeing  "French 
acting. 

Already  I  begin  to  drop  convent  habits  for  Ihose  of  so- 
ciety. I  spend  the  evening  writing  to  you  till  the  moment 
for  going  to  bed  arrives.  This  has  been  postponed  to  ten 
o'clock,  the  hour  at  which  rny  mother  goos  out,  if  she  is  not 
at  the  theatre.  There  are  twelve  theatres  in  Paris. 

I  am  grossly  ignorant  and  I  read  a  lot,  but  quite  indis- 
criminately, one  book  leading  to  another.  I  find  the  names 
of  fresh  books  on  the  cover  of  the  one  I  am  reading;  but  as 
I  have  no  one  to  direct  me,  I  light  on  some  which  are  fear- 
fully dull.  What  modern  literature  I  have  read  all  turns 
upon  love,  the  subject  which  used  to  bulk  so  largely  in  our 
thoughts,  because  it  seemed  that  our  fate  was  determined  by 
man  and  for  man.  But  how  inferior  are  these  authors  to  two 
little  girls,  known  as  Sweetheart  and  Darling— otherwise 
Rende  and  Louise.  Ah!  my  love,  what  wretched  plots, 
what  ridiculous  situations,  and  what  poverty  of  sentiment! 
Two  books,  however,  have  given  me  wonderful  pleasure — 
"Corinne"  and  "Adolphe."  Apropos  of  this,  I  asked  my 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  435 

father  one  day  whether  it  would  •  be  possible  for  me  to  see 
Mme.  de  Stae'l.  My  father,  mother,  and  Alphonse  all  burst 
out  laughing,  and  Alpbonse  said: 

"Where  in  the  world  has  she  sprung  from?" 

To  which  my  father  replied : 

"What  fools  we  are!     She  springs  from  the  Carmelites." 

"My  child,  Mme.  de  Stae'l  is  dead,"  said  my  mother 
gently. 

When  I  had  finished  "Adolphe, "  I  asked  Miss  Griffith 
how  a  woman  could  be  betrayed. 

"Why,  of  course,  when  she  loves,"  was  her  reply. 

Een^e,  tell  me,  do  you  think  we  could  be  betrayed  by  a 
man? 

Miss  Griffith  has  at  last  discerned  that  I  am  not  an  utter 
ignoramus,  that  I  have  somewhere  a  hidden  vein  of  knowl- 
edge, the  knowledge  we  learned  from  each  other  in  our  ran- 
dom arguments.  She  sees  that  it  is  only  superficial  facts  of 
which  I  am  ignorant.  The  poor  thing  has  opened  her  heart 
to  me.  Her  curt  reply  to  my  question,  when  1  compare  it 
with  all  the  sorrows  I  can  imagine,  makes  me  feel  quite 
creepy.  Once  more  she  urged  me  not  to  be  dazzled  by  the 
glitter  of  society,  to  be  always  on  my  guard,  especially  against 
what  most  attracted  me.  This  is  the  sum-total  of  her  wis- 
dom, and  I  can  get  nothing  more  out  of  her.  Her  lectures, 
therefore,  become  a  trifle  monotonous,  and  she  might  be 
compared  in  this  respect  to  the  bird  which  has  only  one  cry. 


m 

THE   SAME  TO  THE   SAME 

December. 

DARLING — Here  I  am  ready  to  make  my  bow 
to  the  world.  By  way  of  preparation  I  have  been 
trying  to  commit  all  the  follies  I  could  think  of 
before  sobering  down  for  my  entry.  This  morning,  I  have 
seen  myself,  after  many  rehearsals,  well  and  duly  equipped 


436  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

stays,  shoes,  curls,  dress,  ornaments — all  in  order.  Fol- 
lowing the  example  of  duellists  before  a  meeting,  I  tried  my 
arms  in  the  privacy  of  my  chamber.  I  wanted  to  see  how 
I  would  look,  and  had  no  difficulty  in  discovering  a  certain 
air  of  victory  and  triumph,  bound  to  carry  all  before  it.  I 
mustered  all  my  forces,  in  accordance  with  that  splendid 
maxim  of  antiquity,  "Know  thyself!"  and  boundless  was 
my  delight  in  thus  making  my  own  acquaintance.  Griffith 
was  the  sole  spectator  of  this  doll's  play,  in  which  I  was  at 
once  doll  and  child.  You  think  you  know  me  ?  You  are 
hugely  mistaken! 

Here  is  a  portrait,  then,  Eenee,  of  your  sister,  formerly 
disguised  as  a  Carmelite,  now  brought  to  life  again  as  a  friv- 
olous society  girl.  She  is  one  of  the  greatest  beauties  in 
France — Provence,  of  course,  excepted.  I  don't  see  that 
I  can  give  a  more  accurate  summary  of  this  interesting  topic. 

True,  I  have  my  weak  points;  but  were  I  a  man,  I  should 
adore  them.  They  arise  from  what  is  most  promising  in  me. 
When  you  have  spent  a  fortnight  admiring  the  exquisite 
curves  of  your  mother's  arms,  and  that  mother  the  Duchesse 
de  Chaulieu,  it  is  impossible,  my  dear,  not  to  deplore  your 
own  angular  elbows.  Yet  there  is  consolation  in  observing 
the  fineness  of  the  wrist,  and  a  certain  grace  of  line  in  those 
hollows,  which  will  yet  fill  out  and  show  plump,  round,  and 
well  modelled,  under  the  satiny  skin.  The  somewhat  crude 
outline  of  the  arms  is  seen  again  in  the  shoulders.  Strictly 
speaking,  indeed,  I  have  no  shoulders,  but  only  two  bony 
blades,  standing  out  in  harsh  relief.  My  figure  also  lacks 
pliancy;  there  is  a  stiffness  about  the  side  lines. 

Poof!  There's  the  worst  out.  But  then  the  contours  are 
bold  and  delicate,  the  bright,  pure  flame  of  health  bites  into 
the  vigorous  lines,  a  flood  of  life  and  of  blue  blood  pulses 
under  the  transparent  skin,  and  the  fairest  daughter  of  Eve 
would  seem  a  negress  beside  me !  I  have  the  foot  of  a  ga- 
zelle! My  joints  are  finely  turned,  my  features  of  a  Greek 
correctness.  It  is  true,  madame,  that  the  flesh  tints  do  not 
melt  into  each  other;  but,  at  least,  they  stand  out  clear  and 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  437 

bright.  In  short,  I  am  a  very  pretty  green  fruit,  with  all  the 
charm  of  unripeness.  I  see  a  great  likeness  to  the  face  in 
my  aunt's  old  missal,  which  rises  out  of  a  violet  lily. 

There  is  no  silly  weakness  in  the  blue  of  my  insolent 
eyes;  the  white  is  pure  mother-of-pearl,  prettily  marked  with 
tiny  veins,  and  the  thick,  long  lashes  fall  like  a  silken  fringe. 
My  forehead  sparkles,  and  the  hair  grows  deliciously;  it  rip- 
ples into  waves  of  pale  gold,  growing  browner  toward  the 
centre,  whence  escape  little  rebel  locks,  which  alone  would 
tell  that  my  fairness  is  not  of  the  insipid  and  hysterical  type. 
I  am  a  tropical  blonde,  with  plenty  of  blood  in  my  veins,  a 
blonde  more  apt  to  strike  than  to  turn  the  cheek.  What  do 
you  think  the  hairdresser  proposed?  He  wanted,  if  you 
please,  to  smooth  my  hair  into  two  bands  and  place  over  my 
forehead  a  pearl,  kept  in  place  by  a  gold  chain!  He  said  it 
would  recall  the  Middle  Ages. 

I  told  him  that  I  was  not  aged  enough  to  have  reached 
the  middle,  or  to  need  an  ornament  to  freshen  me  up ! 

The  nose  is  slender,  and  the  well-cut  nostrils  are  separated 
by  a  sweet  little  pink  partition — an  imperious,  mocking  nose, 
with  a  tip  too  sensitive  ever  to  grow  fat  or  red.  Sweetheart, 
if  this  won't  find  a  husband  for  a  dowerless  maiden,  I'm  a 
donkey.  The  ears  are  daintily  curled,  a  pearl  hanging  from 
either  lobe  would  show  yellow.  The  neck  is  long,  and  has 
an  undulating  motion  full  of  dignity.  In  the  shade  the  white 
ripens  to  a  golden  tinge.  Perhaps  the  mouth  is  a  little  large. 
But  how  expressive!  what  a  color  on  the  lips!  how  prettily 
the  teeth  laugh ! 

Then,  dear,  there  is  a  harmony  running  through  all. 
What  a  gait!  what  a  voice!  We  have  not  forgotten  how 
our  grandmother's  skirts  fell  into  place  without  a  touch.  In 
a  word,  I  am  lovely  and  charming.  When  the  mood  comes, 
I  can  laugh  one  of  our  good  old  laughs,  and  no  one  will  think 
the  less  of  me;  the  dimples,  impressed  by  Comedy's  light 
fingers  on  my  fair  cheeks,  will  command  respect.  Or  I  can 
let  my  eyes  fall  and  my  heart  freeze  under  my  snowy  brows. 
I  can  pose  as  a  Madonna  with  melancholy,  swanlike  neck, 


438  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

and  the  painter's  virgins  will  be  nowhere ;  my  place  in  heaven 
would  be  far  above  them.  A  man  would  be  forced  to  chant 
when  he  spoke  to  me. 

So,  you  see,  my  panoply  is  complete,  and  I  can  run  the 
whole  gamut  of  coquetry  from  deepest  bass  to  shrillest  treble. 
It  is  a  huge  advantage  not  to  be  all  of  one  piece.  Now,  my 
mother  is  neither  playful  nor  virginal.  Her  only  attitude 
is  an  imposing  one;  when  she  ceases  to  be  majestic,  she  is 
ferocious.  It  is  difficult  for  her  to  heal  the  wounds  she 
makes,  whereas  I  can  wound  and  heal  together.  We  are 
absolutely  unlike,  and  therefore  there  could  not  possibly 
be  rivalry  between  us,  unless  indeed  we  quarrelled  over  the 
greater  or  less  perfection  of  our  extremities,  which  are  similar. 
I  take  after  my  father,  who  is  shrewd  and  subtle.  I  have 
the  manner  of  my  grandmother  and  her  charming  voice, 
which  becomes  falsetto  when  forced,  but  is  a  sweet-toned 
chest  voice  at  the  ordinary  pitch  of  a  quiet  talk. 

I  feel  as  if  I  had  left  the  convent  to-day  for  the  first  time. 
For  society  I  do  not  yet  exist;  I  am  unknown  to  it.  What 
a  ravishing  moment!  I  still  belong  only  to  myself,  like  a 
flower  just  blown,  unseen  yet  of  mortal  eye. 

In  spite  of  this,  my  sweet,  as  I  paced  the  drawing-room 
during  my  self-inspection,  and  saw  the  poor  cast-off  school- 
clothes,  a  queer  feeling  came  over  me.  Regret  for  the  Dast, 
anxiety  about  the  future,  fear  of  society,  a  long  farewell  to 
the  pale  daisies  which  we  used  to  pick  and  strip  of  their 
petals  in  light-hearted  innocence,  there  was  something  of  all 
that;  but  strange,  fantastic  visions  also  rose,  which  I  crushed 
back  into  the  inner  depths,  whence  they  had  sprung,  and 
whither  I  dared  not  follow  them. 

My  Be  nee,  I  have  a  regular  trousseau!  It  is  all  beauti- 
fully laid  away  and  perfumed  in  the  cedar-wood  drawers  with 
lacquered  front  of  my  charming  dressing-table.  There  are 
ribbons,  shoes,  gloves,  all  in  lavish  abundance.  My  father 
has  kindly  presented  me  with  the  pretty  gewgaws  a  girl  loves 
— a  dressing-case,  toilet  service,  scent-box,  fan,  sunshade, 
prayer-book,  gold  chain,  cashmere  shawl.  He  has  also  prom- 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  439 

ised  to  give  me  riding  lessons.  And  I  can  dance  I  To-mor- 
row, yes,  to-morrow  evening,  I  come  out ! 

My  dress  is  white  muslin,  and  on  my  head  I  wear  a  gar- 
land of  white  roses  in  Greek  style.  I  shall  put  on  my 
Madonna  face;  I  mean  to  play  the  simpleton,  and  have  all 
the  women  on  my  side.  My  mother  is  miles  away  from  any 
idea  of  what  I  write  to  you.  She  believes  me  quite  destitute 
of  mind,  and  would  be  dumfounded  if  she  read  my  letter. 
My  brother  honors  me  with  a  profound  contempt,  and  is 
uniformly  and  politely  indifferent. 

He  is  a  handsome  young  fellow,  but  melancholy,  and 
given  to  moods.  I  have  divined  his  secret,  though  neither 
the  Duke  nor  Duchess  has  an  inkling  of  it.  In  spite  of  his 
youth  and  his  title,  he  is  jealous  of  his  father.  He  has  no 
position  in  the  State,  no  post  at  Court,  he  never  has  to  say, 
"I  am  going  to  the  Chamber."  I  alone  in  the  house  have 
sixteen  hours  for  meditation.  My  father  is  absorbed  in 
public  business  and  his  own  amusements;  my  mother,  too, 
is  never  at  leisure;  no  member  of  the  household  practices 
self-examination,  they  are  constantly  in  company,  and  have 
hardly  time  to  live. 

1  should  immensely  like  to  know  what  is  the  potent  charm 
wielded  by  society  to  keep  people  prisoner  from  nine  every 
evening  till  two  or  three  in  the  morning,  and  force  them  to 
be  so  lavish  alike  of  strength  and  money.  When  I  longed 
for  it,  I  had  no  idea  of  the  separations  it  brought  about, 
or  its  overmastering  spell.  But,  then,  I  forget,  it  is  Paris 
which  does  it  all. 

It  is  possible,  it  seems,  for  members  of  one  family  to 
live  side  by  side  and  know  absolutely  nothing  of  each 
other.  A  half-fledged  nun  arrives,  and  in  a  couple  of 
weeks  has  grasped  domestic  details,  of  which  the  master 
diplomatist  at  the  head  of  the  house  is  quite  igrfbrant.  Or 
perhaps  he  does  see,  and  shuts  his  eyes  deliberately,  as  part 
of  the  father's  rdle.  There  is  a  mystery  here  which  I  must 
plumb. 


440  KALZAC'S    WORKS 

IV 

THE   SAME   TO   THE   SAME 

December  15th. 

rESTERDA  y,  at  two  o'clock,  I  went  to  drive  in  the 
Champs-Elyse'es  and  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  It  was 
one  of  those  autumn  days  which  we  used  to  find  so 
beautiful  on  the  banks  of  the  Loire.  So  I  have  seen  Paris 
at  last!  The  Place  Louis  XV.  is  certainly  very  fine,  but 
the  beauty  is  that  of  man's  handiwork. 

I  was  dressed  to  perfection,  pensive,  with  set  face 
(though  inwardly  much  tempted  to  laugh),  under  a  lovely 
hat,  my  arms  crossed.  Would  you  believe  it?  Not  a 
single  smile  was  thrown  at  me,  not  one  poor  youth  was 
struck  motionless  as  I  passed,  not  a  soul  turned  to  look 
again;  and  yet  the  carriage  proceeded  with  a  deliberation 
worthy  of  my  pose. 

No,  I  was  wrong,  there  was  one — a  duke  and  a  charming 
man — who  suddenly  reined  in  as  he  went  by.  The  individ- 
ual who  thus  saved  appearances  for  me  was  my  father,  and 
he  proclaimed  himself  highly  gratified  by  what  he  saw.  I 
met  my  mother  also,  who  sent  me  a  butterfly  kiss  from  the 
tips  of  her  fingers.  The  worthy  Griffith,  who  fears  no  man, 
cast  her  glances  hither  and  thither  without  discrimination. 
In  my  judgment,  a  young  woman  should  always  know  ex- 
actly what  her  eye  is  resting  on. 

I  was  mad  with  rage.  One  man  actually  inspected  my 
carriage  without  noticing  me.  This  flattering  homage  prob- 
ably came  from  a  carriage-maker.  I  have  been  quite  out  in 
the  reckoning  of  my  forces.  Plainly,  beauty,  that  rare  gift 
which  comes  from  heaven,  is  commoner  in  Paris  than  I 
thought.  I  saw  hats  defied  with  deference  to  simpering 
fools;  a  purple  face  called  forth  murmurs  of,  "It  is  she!" 
My  mother  received  an  immense  amount  of  admiration. 
There  is  an  answer  to  this  problem,  and  I  mean  to  find  it. 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  441 

The  men,  my  dear,  seemed  to  me  generally  very  ugly. 
The  few  exceptions  are  bad  copies  of  us.  Heaven  knows 
what  evil  genius  has  inspired  their  costume;  it  is  amaz- 
ingly inelegant  compared  with  those  of  former  genera- 
tions. It  has  no  distinction,  no  beauty  of  color  or 
romance;  it  appeals  neither  to  the  senses,  nor  the  mind, 
nor  the  eye,  and  it  must  be  very  uncomfortable.  It  is 
meagre  and  stunted.  The  hat,  above  all,  struck  me;  it  is 
a  sort  of  truncated  column,  and  does  not  adapt  itself  in  the 
least  to  the  shape  of  the  head;  but  I  am  told  it  is  easier  to 
bring  about  a  revolution  than  to  invent  a  graceful  hat. 
Courage  in  Paris  recoils  before  the  thought  of  appearing 
in  a  round  felt;  and  for  lack  of  one  day's  daring,  men 
stick  all  their  lives  to  this  ridiculous  headpiece.  And  yet 
Frenchmen  are  said  to  be  fickle! 

The  men  are  hideous  any  way,  whatever  they  put  on 
their  heads.  I  have  seen  nothing  but  worn,  hard  faces, 
with  no  calm  nor  peace  in  the  expression;  the  harsh  lines 
and  furrows  speak  of  foiled  ambition  and  smarting  vanity. 
A  fine  forehead  is  rarely  seen. 

"And  these  are  the  product  of  Paris!"  I  said  to  Miss 
Griffith. 

"Most  cultivated , and  pleasant  men,"  she  replied. 

I  was  silent.  The  heart  of  a  spinster  of  thirty-six  is  a 
well  of  tolerance. 

In  the  evening  I  went  to  the  ball,  where  I  kept  close  to 
my  mother's  side.  She  gave  me  her  arm  with  a  devotion 
which  did  not  miss  its  reward.  All  the  honors  were  for 
her;  I  was  made  the  pretext  for  charming  compliments. 
She  was  clever  enough  to  find  me  fools  for  my  partners, 
who  one  and  all  expatiated  on  the  heat  and  the  beauty  of 
the  ball,  till  you  might  suppose  I  was  freezing  and  blind. 
Not  one  failed  to  enlarge  on  the  strange,  unheard-of,  ex- 
traordinary, odd,  remarkable  fact — that  he  saw  me  for  the 
first  time. 

My  dress,  which  dazzled  me  as  I  paraded  alone  in  my 
white-and-gold  drawing-room,  was  barely  noticeable  amid 


442  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

the  o-or»eous  finery  of  most  of  the  married  women.  Each 
had  her  band  of  faithful  followers,  and  they  all  watched 
each  other  askance.  A  few  were  radiant  in  triumphant 
beauty,  and  among  these  was  my  mother.  A  girl  at  a 
ball  is  a  mere  dancing  machine — a  thing  of  no  consequence 
whatever. 

The  men,  with  rare  exceptions,  did  not  impress  me  more 
favorably  here  than  at  the  Champs-Elysees.  They  have  a 
used-up  look;  their  features  are  meaningless,  or  rather  they 
have  all  the  same  meaning.  The  proud,  stalwart  bearing 
which  we  find  in  the  portraits  of  our  ancestors — men  who 
joined  moral  to  physical  vigor — has  disappeared.  Yet  in 
this  gathering  there  was  one  man  of  remarkable  ability, 
who  stood  out  from  the  rest  by  the  beauty  of  his  face.  But 
even  he  did  not  rouse  in  me  the  feeling  which  I  should  have 
expected.  I  do  not  know  his  works,  and  he  is  a  man  of  no 
family.  Whatever  the  genius  and  the  merits  of  a  plebeian 
or  a  commoner,  he  could  never  stir  my  blood.  Besides, 
this  man  was  obviously  so  much  more  taken  up  with  him- 
self than  with  anybody  else,  that  I  could  not  but  think 
these  great  brain-workers  must  look  on  us  as  things  rather 
than  persons.  When  men  of  intellectual  power  love,  they 
ought  to  give  up  writing,  otherwise  their  love  is  not  the 
real  thing.  The  lady  of  their  heart  does  not  come  first  in 
all  their  thoughts.  I  seemed  to  read  all  this  in  the  bearing 
of  the  man  I  speak  of.  I  am  told  he  is  a  professor,  orator, 
and  author,  whose  ambition  makes  him  the  slave  of  every 
bigwig. 

My  mind  was  made  up  on  the  spot.  It  was  unworthy  of 
me,  I  determined,  to  quarrel  with  society  for  not  being  im- 
pressed by  my  merits,  and  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  simple 
pleasure  of  dancing,  which  I  thoroughly  enjoyed.  I  heard 
a  great  deal  of  inept  gossip  ^.bout  people  of  whom  I  knew 
nothing;  but  perhaps  it  is  my  ignorance  on  many  subjects 
which  prevents  me  from  appreciating  it,  as  I  saw  that  most 
men  and  women  took  a  lively  pleasure  in  certain  remarks, 
whether  falling  from  their  own  lips  or  those  of  others.  So- 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  443 

ciety  bristles  with  enigmas  which  look  hard  to  solve.  It  is 
a  perfect  maze  of  intrigue.  Yet  I  am  fairly  quick  of  sight 
and  hearing,  and  as  to  my  wits,  Mile,  de  Maucombe  does 
not  need  to  be  told. 

I  returned  home  tired  with  a  pleasant  sort  of  tiredness, 
and  in  all  innocence  began  describing  my  sensations  to  my 
mother,  who  was  with  me.  She  checked  me  with  the  warn- 
ing that  I  must  never  say  such  things  to  any  one  but  her. 

"My  dear  child,"  she  added,  "it  needs  as  much  tact  to 
know  when  to  be  silent  as  when  to  speak." 

This  advice  brought  home  to  me  the  nature  of  the  sen- 
sations which  ought  to  be  concealed  from  every  one,  not 
excepting  perhaps  even  a  mother.  fi.t  a  glance  I  measured 
the  vast  field  of  feminine  duplicity.  I  can  assure  you,  sweet- 
heart, that  we,  in  our  unabashed  simplicity,  would  pass  for 
two  very  wide-awake  little  scandal-mongers.  What  lessons 
may  be  conveyed  in  a  finger  on  the  lips,  in  a  word,  a  look ! 
All  in  a  moment  I  was  seized  with  excessive  shyness. 
What!  may  I  never  again  speak  of  the  natural  pleasure  I 
feel  in  the  exercise  of  dancing  ?  ' '  How  then, ' '  I  said  to 
myself,  "about  the  deeper  feelings?" 

I  went  to  bed  sorrowful,  and  I  still  suffer  from  the 
shock  produced  by  this  first  collision  of  my  frank,  joyous 
nature  with  the  harsh  laws  of  society.  Already  the  high- 
way hedges  are  flecked  with  my  white  wool!  Farewell, 
beloved. 


V 

RENEE   DE   MAUCOMBE   TO   LOUISE   DE   CHAULIEU 

October. 

T  J~OW  DEEPLY  your  letter  moved  me;    above  all, 
£  £      when    I    compare   our  widely   different  destinies! 
How  brilliant  is  the  world  you  are  entering,  how 
peaceful  the  retreat  where  I  shall  end  my  modest  career! 

In  the  Castle  of  Maucombe,  which  is  so  well  known  to 
you  by  description  that  I  shall  say  no  more  of  it,  I  found 


444  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

my  room  almost  exactly  as  I  left  it;  only  now  I  can  enjoy 
the  splendid  view  it  gives  of  the  Gremenos  valley,  which 
my  childish  eyes  used  to  see  without  comprehending.  A 
fortnight  after  my  arrival,  my  father  and  mother  took  me, 
along  with  my  two  brothers,  to  dine  with  one  of  our  neigh- 
bors, M.  de  1'Estorade,  an  old  gentleman  of  good  family, 
who  has  made  himself  rich,  after  the  provincial  fashion,  by 
scraping  and  paring. 

M.  de  1'Estorade  was  unable  to  save  his  only  son  from 
the  clutches  of  Bonaparte;  after  successfully  eluding  the 
conscription,  he  was  forced  to  send  him  to  the  army  in 
1813,  to  join  the  Emperor's  bodyguard.  After  Leipsic  no 
more  was  heard  of  him.  M.  de  Montriveau,  whom  the 
father  interviewed  in  1814,  declared  that  he  had  seen  him 
taken  by  the  Eussians.  Mine,  de  1'Estorade  died  of  grief 
while  a  vain  search  was  being  made  in  Russia.  The  Baron, 
a  very  pious  old  man,  practiced  that  fine  theological  virtue 
which  we  used  to  cultivate  at  Blois — Hope!  Hope  made 
him  see  his  son  in  dreams.  He  hoarded  his  income  for 
him,  and  guarded  carefully  the  portion  of  inheritance 
which  fell  to  him  from  the  family  of  the  late  Mme.  de 
1'Estorade,  no  one  venturing  to  ridicule  the  old  man. 

At  last  it  dawned  upon  me  that  the  unexpected  return 
of  this  son  was  the  cause  of  my  own.  Who  could  have  im- 
agined, while  fancy  was  leading  us  a  giddy  dance,  that  my 
destined  husband  was  slowly  travelling  on  foot  through  Rus- 
sia, Poland,  and  Germany  ?  His  bad  luck  only  forsook  him 
at  Berlin,  where  the  French  Minister  helped  his  return  to  his 
native  country.  M.  de  1'Estorade,  the  father,  who  is  a  small 
landed  proprietor  in  Provence,  with  an  income  of  about  ten 
thousand  livres,  has  not  sufficient  European  fame  to  interest 
the  world  in  the  wandering  Knight  de  1'Estorade,  whose  name 
smacks  of  his  adventures. 

The  accumulated  income  of  twelve  thousand  livres  from 
the  property  of  Mme.  de  1'Estorade,  with  the  addition  of 
the  father's  savings,  provides  the  poor  guard  of  honor  with 
something  like  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  livres,  not 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  445 

counting  house  and  lands — quite  a  considerable  fortune  in 
Provence.  His  worthy  father  had  bought,  on  the  very  eve 
of  the  Chevalier's  return,  a  fine  but  badly-managed  estate, 
where  he  designs  to  plant  ten  thousand  mulberry-trees, 
raised  in  his  nursery  with  a  special  view  to  this  acquisi- 
tion. The  Baron,  having  found  his  long-lost  son,  has  now 
but  one  thought,  to  marry  him,  and  marry  him  to  a  girl  of 
good  family. 

My  father  and  mother  entered  into  their  neighbor's  idea 
with  an  eye  to  my  interests  so  soon  as  they  discovered  that 
Eenee  de  Maucombe  would  be  acceptable  without  a  dowry, 
and  that  the  money  the  said  Kene'e  ought  to  inherit  from  her 
parents  would  be  duly  acknowledged  as  hers  in  the  contract. 
In  a  similar  way,  my  younger  brother,  Jean  de  Maucombe, 
as  soon  as  he  came  of  age,  signed  a  document  stating  that  he 
had  received  from  his  parents  an  advance  upon  the  estate 
equal  in  amount  to  one-third  of  the  whole.  This  is  the  de- 
vice by  which  the  nobles  of  Provence  elude  the  infamous 
Civil  Code  of  M.  de  Bonaparte,  a  code  which  will  drive  as 
many  girls  of  good  family  into  convents  as  it  will  find  hus- 
bands for.  The  French  nobility,  from  the  little  1  have  been 
able  to  gather,  seem  to  be  much  divided  on  these  matters. 

The  dinner,  darling,  was  a  first  meeting  between  your 
sweetheart  and  the  exile.  The  Comte  de  Maucombe's  ser- 
vants donned  their  old  laced  liveries  and  hats,  the  coachman 
his  great  top-boots;  we  sat  five  in  the  antiquated  carriage, 
and  arrived  in  state  about  two  o'clock — the  dinner  was  for 
three — at  the  grange,  which  is  the  dwelling  of  the  Baron  de 
1'Estorade. 

My  father-in-law  to  be  has,  you  see,  no  castle,  only  a 
simple  country  house,  standing  beneath  one  of  our  hills,  at 
the  entrance  of  that  noble  valley,  the  pride  of  which  is  un- 
doubtedly the  Castle  of  Maucombe.  The  building  is  quite 
unpretentious:  four  pebble  walls  covered  with  a  yellowish 
wash,  and  roofed  with  hollow  tiles  of  a  good  red,  constitute 
the  grange.  The  rafters  bend  under  the  weight  of  this  brick- 
kiln. The  windows,  inserted  casually,  without  any  attempt 


446  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

at  symmetry,  have  enormous  shutters,  painted  yellow.  The 
garden  in  which  it  stands  is  a  Provengal  garden,  inclosed  by 
low  walls,  built  of  big  round  pebbles  set  in  layers,  alternately 
sloping  or  upright,  according  to  the  artistic  taste  of  the  mason, 
which  finds  here  its  only  outlet.  The  mud  in  which  they  are 
set  is  falling  away  in  places. 

Thanks  to  an  iron  railing  at  the  entrance  facing  the  road, 
this  simple  farm  has  a  certain  air  of  being  a  country-seat. 
The  railing,  long  sought  with  tears,  is  so  emaciated  that  it 
recalled  Sister  Angelique  to  me.  A  flight  of  stone  steps 
leads  to  the  door,  which  is  protected  by  a  pent-house  roof, 
such  as  no  peasant  on  the  Loire  would  tolerate  for  his  co- 
quettish white  stone  house,  with  its  blue  roof,  glittering  in 
the  sun.  The  garden  and  surrounding  walks  are  horribly 
dusty,  and  the  trees  seem  burned  up.  It  is  easy  to  see  that 
for  years  the  Baron's  life  has  been  a  mere  rising  up  and  go- 
ing to  bed  again,  day  after  day,  without  a  thought  beyond 
that  of  piling  up  coppers.  He  eats  the  same  food  as  his  two 
servants,  a  Provengal  lad  and  the  old  woman  who  used  to 
wait  on  his  wife.  The  rooms  are  scantily  furnished. 

Nevertheless,  the  house  of  1'Estorade  had  done  its  best; 
the  cupboards  had  been  ransacked,  and  its  last  man  beaten 
up  for  the  dinner,  which  was  served  to  us  on  old  silver 
dishes,  blackened  and  battered.  The  exile,  my  darling 
pet,  is  like  the  railing,  emaciated.  He  is  pale  and  silent, 
and  bears  traces  of  suffering.  At  thirty-seven  he  might  be 
fifty.  The  once  beautiful  ebon  locks  of  youth  are  streaked 
with  white  like  a  lark's  wing.  His  fine  blue  eyes  are  cav- 
ernous ;  he  is  a  little  deaf,  which  suggests  the  Knight  of  the 
Sorrowful  Countenance. 

Spite  of  all  this,  I  have  graciously  consented  to  become 
Mine,  de  1'Estorade  and  to  receive  a  dowry  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  livres,  but  only  on  the  express  condition 
of  being  allowed  to  work  my  will  upon  the  grange  and  make 
a  park  there.  I  have  demanded  from  my  father,  in  set  terms, 
a  grant  of  water,  which  can  be  brought  thither  from  Mau- 
combe.  In  a  month  I  shall  be  Mme.  de  1'Estorade;  for, 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  447 

dear,  I  have  made  a  good  impression.  After  the  snows  of 
Siberia  a  man  is  ready  enough  to  see  merit  in  those  black 
eyes,  which,  according  to  you,  used  to  ripen  fruit  with  a 
look.  Louis  de  1'Estorade  seems  well  content  to  marry  the 
fair  Renee  de  Maucombe — such  is  your  friend's  splendid  title. 

While  you  are  preparing  to  reap  the  joys  of  that  many- 
sided  existence  which  awaits  a  young  lady  of  the  Chaulieu 
family,  and  to  queen  it  in  Paris,  your  poor  little  sweetheart, 
Renee,  that  child  of  the  desert,  has  fallen  from  the  empyrean, 
whither  together  we  had  soared,  into  the  vulgar  realities  of 
a  life  as  homely  as  a  daisy's.  I  have  vowed  to  myself  to 
comfort  this  young  man,  who  has  never  known  youth,  but 
passed  straight  from  his  mother's  arms  to  the  embrace  of 
war,  and  from  the  joys  of  his  country  home  to  the  frosts  and 
forced  labor  of  Siberia. 

Humble  country  pleasures  will  enliven  the  monotony  of 
my  future.  It  shall  be  my  ambition  to  enlarge  the  oasis 
round  my  house,  and  to  give  it  the  lordly  shade  of  fine  trees. 
My  turf,  though  Provengal,  shall  be  always  green.  I  shall 
carry  my  park  up  the  hillside  and  plant  on  the  highest  point 
some  pretty  kiosk,  whence,  perhaps,  my  eyes  may  catch  the 
shimmer  of  the  Mediterranean.  Orange  and  lemon  trees,  and 
all  choicest  things  that  grow,  shall  embellish  my  retreat; 
and  there  will  I  be  a  mother  among  my  children.  The  po- 
etry of  Nature,  which  nothing  can  destroy,  shall  hedge  us 
round;  and  standing  loyally  at  the  post  of  duty,  we  need 
fear  no  danger.  My  religious  feelings  are  shared  by  my 
father-in-law  and  by  the  Chevalier. 

Ah!  darling,  my  life  unrolls  itself  before  my  eyes  like 
one  of  the  great  highways  of  France,  level  and  easy,  shaded 
with  evergreen  trees.  This  century  will  not  see  another 
Bonaparte;  and  my  children,  if  I  have  any,  will  not  be 
rent  from  me.  They  will  be  mine  to  train  and  make  men 
of — the  joy  of  my  life.  If  you  also  are  true  to  your  destiny, 
you  who  ought  to  find  your  mate  among  the  great  ones  of  the 
earth,  the  children  of  your  Renee  will  not  lack  a  zealous 
protectress. 


448  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Farewell,  then,  for  me  at  least,  to  the  romances  and  thrill- 
ing adventures  in  which  we  used  ourselves  to  play  the  part 
of  heroine.  The  whole  story  of  my  life  lies  before  me  now; 
its  great  crisis  will  be  the  teething  and  nutrition  of  the 
young  Masters  de  1'Estorade,  and  the  mischief  they  do  to 
my  shrubs  and  me.  To  embroider  their  caps,  to  be  loved 
and  admired  by  a  sickly  man  at  the  mouth  of  the  Ge'menos 
valley — there  are  my  pleasures.  Perhaps  some  day  the  coun- 
try dame  may  go  and  spend  a  winter  in  Marseilles;  but  dan- 
ger does  not  haunt  the  purlieus  of  a  narrow  provincial  stage. 
There  will  be  nothing  to  fear,  not  even  an  admiration  such 
as  could  only  make  a  woman  proud.  We  shall  take  a  great 
deal  of  interest  in  the  silkworms  for  whose  benefit  our  mul- 
berry-leaves will  be  sold!  We  shall  know  the  strange  vicis- 
situdes of  life  in  Provence,  and  the  storms  that  may  attack 
even  a  peaceful  household.  Quarrels  will  be  impossible,  for 
M.  de  1'Estorade  has  formally  announced  that  he  will  leave 
the  reins  in  his  wife's  hands;  and  as  I  shall  do  nothing  to 
remind  him  of  this  wise  resolve,  it  is  likely  he  may  perse- 
vere in  it. 

You,  my  dear  Louise,  will  supply  the  romance  of  my  life. 
So  you  must  narrate  to  me  in  full  all  your  adventures,  de- 
scribe your  balls  and  parties,  tell  me  what  you  wear,  what 
flowers  crown  your  lovely  golden  locks,  and  what  are  the 
words  and  manners  of  the  men  you  meet.  Your  other  self 
will  be  always  there — listening,  dancing,  feeling  her  finger- 
tips pressed — with  you.  If  only  I  could  have  some  fun  in 
Paris  now  and  then,  while  you  played  the  house-mother  at 
La  Crampade !  such  is  the  name  of  our  grange.  Poor  M.  de 
1'Estorade,  who  fancies  he  is  marrying  one  woman!  Will 
he  find  out  there  are  two? 

I  am  writing  nonsense  now,  and  as  henceforth  I  can  only 
be  foolish  by  proxy,  I  had  better  stop.  One  kiss,  then,  on 
each  cheek — my  lips  are  still  virginal,  he  has  only  dared  to 
take  my  hand.  Oh!  our  deference  and  propriety  are  quite 
disquieting,  I  assure  you.  There,  I  am  off  again.  .  .  . 
Good-by,  dear. 


LETTERS    OF   TWO   BRIDES  449 

P.S. — I  have  just  opened  your  third  letter.  My  dear,  I 
have  about  one  thousand  livres  to  dispose  of;  spend  them 
for  me  on  pretty  things,  such  as  we  can't  find  here,  nor  even 
at  Marseilles.  While  speeding  on  your  own  business,  give 
a  thought  to  the  recluse  of  La  Crampade.  Remember  that 
on  neither  side  have  the  heads  of  the  family  any  people  of 
taste  in  Paris  to  make  their  purchases.  I  shall  reply  to  your 
letter  later. 


VI 

DON  FELIPE  HENAREZ  TO  DON  FERNAND 

PARIS,  September. 

riLE  ADDRESS  of  this  letter,  my  brother,  will  show 
you  that  the  head  of  your  house  is  out  of  reach  of 
danger.  If  the  massacre  of  our  ancestors  in  the 
Court  of  Lions  made  Spaniards  and  Christians  of  us  against 
our  will,  it  left  us  a  legacy  of  Arab  cunning;  and  it  may  be 
that  I  owe  my  safety  to  the  blood  of  the  Abencerrages  still 
flowing  in  my  veins. 

Fear  made  Ferdinand's  acting  so  good  that  Valdez  actually 
believed  in  his  protestations.  But  for  me  the  poor  Admiral 
would  have  been  done  for.  Nothing,  it  seems,  will  teach  the 
Liberals  what  a  king  is.  This  particular  Bourbon  has  been 
long  known  to  me;  and  the  more  his  Majesty  assured  me 
of  his  protection,  the  stronger  grew  my  suspicions.  A  true 
Spaniard  has  no  need  to  repeat  a  promise.  A  flow  of  words 
is  a  sure  sign  of  duplicity. 

Valdez  took  ship  on  an  English  vessel.  For  myself,  no 
sooner  did  I  see  the  cause  of  my  beloved  Spam  wrecked  in 
Andalusia,  than  I  wrote  to  the  steward  of  my  Sardinian 
estate  to  make  arrangements  for  my  escape.  Some  hardy 
coral  fishers  were  despatched  to  wait  for  me  at  a  point  on 
the  coast;  and  when  Ferdinand  urged  the  French  to  secure 
my  person,  I  was  already  in  my  barony  of  Macumer,  amid 
brigands  who  defy  all  law  and  all  avengers. 

The  last  Hispano-Moorish  family  of  Granada  has  found 


450  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

once  more  the  shelter  of  an  African  desert,  and  even  a  Sara- 
cen horse,  in  an  estate  which  comes  to  it  from  Saracens. 
How  the  eyes  of  these  brigands — who  but  yesterday  had 
dreaded  my  authority— sparkled  with  savage  joy  and  pride 
when  they  found  they  were  protecting  against  the  King  of 
Spain's  vendetta  the  Due  de  Soria,  their  master  and  a  He- 
narez — the  first  who  had  come  to  visit  them  since  the  time 
when  the  island  belonged  to  the  Moors.  More  than  a  score 
of  rifles  were  ready  to  point  at  Ferdinand  of  Bourbon,  son 
of  a  race  which  was  still  unknown  when  the  Abencerrages 
arrived  as  conquerors  on  the  banks  of  the  Loire. 

My  idea  had  been  to  live  on  the  income  of  these  huge 
estates,  which,  unfortunately,  we  have  so  greatly  neglected ; 
but  my  stay  there  convinced  me  that  this  was  impossible,  and 
that  Queverdo's  reports  were  only  too  correct.  The  poor 
man  had  twenty-two  lives  at  my  disposal,  and  not  a  single 
re*al;  prairies  of  twenty  thousand  acres,  and  not  a  house; 
virgin  forests,  and  not  a  stick  of  furniture!  A  million 
piastres  and  a  resident  master  for  half  a  century  would  be 
necessary  to  make  these  magnificent  lands  pay.  I  must  see 
to  this. 

The  conquered  have  time  during  their  flight  to  ponder 
their  own  case  and  that  of  their  vanquished  party.  At  the 
spectacle  of  my  noble  country,  a  corpse  for  monks  to  prey 
on,  my  eyes  filled  with  tears;  I  read  in  it  the  presage  of 
Spain's  gloomy  future. 

At  Marseilles  I  heard  of  Riego's  end.  Painfully  did  it 
come  home  to  me  that  my  life  also  would  henceforth  be  a 
martyrdom,  but  a  martyrdom  protracted  and  unnoticed.  Is 
existence  worthy  the  name,  when  a  man  can  no  longer  die 
for  his  country  or  live  for  a  woman  ?  To  love,  to  conquer, 
this  twofold  form  of  the  same  thought,  is  the  law  graven  on 
our  sabres,  emblazoned  on  the  vaulted  roofs  of  our  pal- 
aces, ceaselessly  whispered  by  the  water,  which  rises  and 
falls  in  our  marble  fountains.  But  in  vain  does  it  nerve 
my  heart;  the  sabre  is  broken,  the  palace  in  ashes,  the  living 
spring  sucked  up  by  the  barren  sand. 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  451 

Here,  then,  is  my  last  will  and  testament. 

Don  Fernand,  you  will  understand  now  why  I  put  a  check 
upon  your  ardor  and  ordered  you  to  remain  faithful  to  the 
rey  netto.  As  your  brother  and  friend,  I  implore  you  to 
obey  me;  as  your  master,  I  command.  You  will  go  to  the 
King  and  will  ask  from  him  the  grant  of  my  dignities  and 
property,  my  office  and  titles.  He  will  perhaps  hesitate,  and 
may  treat  you  to  some  regal  scowls ;  but  you  must  tell  him 
that  you  are  loved  by  Marie  HereMia,  and  that  Marie  can 
marry  none  but  a  Due  de  Soria.  This  will  make  the  King 
radiant.  It  is  the  immense  fortune  of  the  Here'dia  family 
which  alone  has  stood  between  him  and  the  accomplishment 
of  my  ruin.  Your  proposal  will  seem  to  him,  therefore,  to 
deprive  me  of  a  last  resource,  and  he  will  gladly  hand  over 
to  you  my  spoils. 

You  will  then  marry  Marie.  The  secret  of  the  mutual 
love  against  which  you  fought  was  no  secret  to  me,  and  I 
have  prepared  the  old  Count  to  see  you  take  my  place. 
Marie  and  I  were  merely  doing  what  was  expected  of  us 
in  our  position  and  carrying  out  the  wishes  of  our  fathers; 
everything  else  is  in  your  favor.  You  are  beautiful  as  a 
child  of  love,  and  are  possessed  of  Marie's  heart.  I  am  an 
ill-favored  Spanish  grandee,  for  whom  she  feels  an  aversion 
to  which  she  will  not  confess.  Some  slight  reluctance  there 
may  be  on  the  part  of  the  noble  Spanish  girl  on  account  of 
my  misfortunes,  but  this  you  will  soon  overcome. 

Due  de  Soria,  your  predecessor  would  neither  cost  you  a 
regret  nor  rob  you  of  a  maravedi.  My  mother's  diamonds, 
which  will  suffice  to  make  me  independent,  I  will  keep,  be- 
cause the  gap  caused  by  them  in  the  family  estate  can  be 
filled  by  Marie's  jewels*  You  can  send  them,  therefore,  by 
my  nurse,  old  Urraca,  the  only  one  of  my  servants  whom  I 
wish  to  retain.  No  one  can  prepare  my  chocolate  as  she  does. 

During  our  brief  revolution,  my  life  of  unremitting  toil 
was  reduced  to  the  barest  necessaries,  and  these  my  salary 
was  sufficient  to  provide.  You  will  therefore  find  the  in- 
come of  the  last  two  years  in  the  hands  of  your  steward. 


452  BALZAC'S  WORKS 

This  sum  is  mine;  but  a  Due  de  Soria  cannot  marry  without 
a  large  expenditure  of  money,  therefore  we  will  divide  it. 
You  will  not  refuse  this  wedding-present  from  your  brigand 
brother.  Besides,  I  mean  to  have  it  so. 

The  barony  of  Macumer,  not  being  Spanish  territory,  re- 
mains to  me.  Thus  I  have  still  a  country  and  a  name,  should 
I  wish  to  take  up  a  position  in  the  world  again. 

Thank  Heaven,  this  finishes  our  business,  and  the  house 
of  Soria  is  saved ! 

At  the  very  moment  when  I  drop  into  simple  Baron  de 
Macumer,  the  French  cannon  announce  the  arrival  of  the 
Due  d'Angouleme.  You  will  understand  why  I  break 
off.  ... 

October. 

WHEN  I  arrived  here  1  had  not  ten  doubloons  in  my 
pocket.  He  would  indeed  be  a  poor  sort  of  leader  who,  in 
the  midst  of  calamities  he  has  not  been  able  to  avert,  has 
found  means  to  feather  his  own  nest.  For  the  vanquished 
Moor  there  remains  a  horse  and  the  desert;  for  the  Christian 
foiled  of  his  hopes,  the  cloister  and  a  few  gold  pieces. 

But  my  present  resignation  is  mere  weariness.  I  am  not 
yet  so  near  the  monastery  as  to  have  abandoned  all  thoughts 
of  life.  Ozalga  had  given  me  several  letters  of  introduction 
to  meet  all  emergencies,  among  these  one  to  a  bookseller, 
who  takes  with  our  fellow  countrymen  the  place  which  Ga- 
lignani  holds  with  the  English  in  Paris.  This  man  has  found 
eight  pupils  for  me  at  three  francs  a  lesson.  I  go  to  my 
pupils  every  alternate  day,  so  that  I  have  four  lessons  a  day 
and  earn  twelve  francs,  which  is  much  more  than  I  require. 
When  Urraca  comes  I  shall  make  some  Spanish  exile  happy 
by  passing  on  to  him  my  connection. 

I  lodge  in  the  Eue  Hillerin-Bertin  with  a  poor  widow, 
who  takes  boarders.  My  room  faces  south  and  looks  out  on 
a  little  garden.  It  is  perfectly  quiet;  I  have  green  trees  to 
look  upon,  and  spend  the  sum  of  one  piastre  a  day.  I  am 
amazed  at  the  amount  of  calm,  pure  pleasure  which  I  enjoy 
in  this  life,  after  the  fashion  of  Dionysius  at  Corinth.  From 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  453 

sunrise  until  ten  o'clock  I  smoke  and  take  my  chocolate, 
sitting  at  my  window  and  contemplating  two  Spanish  plants, 
a  broom  which  rises  out  of  a  clump  of  jessamine — gold  on  a 
white  ground,  colors  which  must  send  a  thrill  through  any 
scion  of  the  Moors.  At  ten  o'clock  I  start  for  my  lessons, 
which  last  till  four,  when  I  return  for  dinner.  Afterward 
I  read  and  smoke  till  I  go  to  bed. 

I  can  put  up  for  a  long  time  with  a  life  like  this,  com- 
pounded of  work  and  meditation,  of  solitude  and  society. 
Be  happy,  therefore,  Fernand;  my  abdication  has  brought 
no  afterthoughts;  I  have  no  regrets  like  Charles  V.,  no 
longing  to  try  the  game  again  like  Napoleon.  Five  days 
and  nights  have  passed  since  I  wrote  my  will ;  to  my  mind 
they  might  have  been  five  centuries.  Honor,  titles,  wealth, 
are  for  me  as  though  they  had  never  existed. 

Now  that  the  conventional  barrier  of  respect  which  hedged 
me  round  has  fallen,  1  can  open  my  heart  to  you,  dear  boy. 
Though  cased  in  the  armor  of  gravity,  this  heart  is  full  of 
tenderness  and  devotion,  which  have  found  no  object,  and 
which  no  woman  has  divined,  not  even  she  who,  from  her 
cradle,  has  been  my  destined  bride.  In  this  lies  the  secret 
of  my  political  enthusiasm.  Spain  has  taken  the  place  of  a 
mistress  and  received  the  homage  of  my  heart.  And  now 
Spain,  too,  is  gone!  Beggared  of  all,  I  can  gaze  upon  the 
ruin  of  what  once  was  me  and  speculate  over  the  mysteries 
of  my  being. 

Why  did  life  animate  this  carcass,  and  when  will  it  de- 
part? Why  has  that  race,  pre-eminent  in  chivalry,  breathed 
all  its  primitive  virtues — its  tropical  Iove3  its  fiery  poetry — 
into  this  its  last  offshoot,  if  the  seed  was  never  to  burst  its 
rugged  shell,  if  no  stem  was  to  spring  forth,  no  radiant  flower 
scatter  aloft  its  Eastern  perfumes?  Of  what  crime  have  I 
been  guilty  before  my  birth  that  I  can  inspire  no  love  ?  Did 
fate  from  my  very  infancy  decree  that  I  should  be  stranded, 
a  useless  hulk,  on  some  barren  shore  ?  I  find  in  my  soul  the 
image  of  the  deserts  where  my  fathers  ranged,  illumined  by 
a  scorching  sun  which  shrivels  up  all  life.  Proud  remnant 


454  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

of  a  fallen  race,  vain  force,  love  run  to  waste,  an  old  man  In 
the  prime  of  youth,  here  better  than  elsewhere  shall  I  await 
the  last  grace  of  death.  Alas!  under  this  murky  sky  no 
spark  will  kindle  these  ashes  again  to  flame.  Thus  my  last 
words  may  be  those  of  Christ,  My  God,  Thou  hast  forsaken 
me  I  Cry  of  agony  and  terror,  to  the  core  of  which  no  mortal 
has  ventured  yet  to  penetrate ! 

You  can  realize  now,  Fernand,  what  a  joy  it  is  to  mo  to 
live  afresh  in  you  and  Marie.  I  shall  watch  you  henceforth 
with  the  pride  of  a  creator  satisfied  in  his  work.  Love  each 
other  well  and  go  on  loving  if  you  would  not  give  me  pain; 
any  discord  between  you  would  hurt  me  more  than  it  would 
yourselves. 

Our  mother  had  a  presentiment  that  events  would  one  day 
serve  her  wishes.  It  may  be  that  the  longing  of  a  mother 
constitutes  a  pact  between  herself  and  God.  Was  she  not, 
moreover,  one  of  those  mysterious  beings  who  can  hold  con- 
verse with  Heaven  and  bring  back  thence  a  vision  of  the, 
future?  How  often  have  I  not  read  in  the  lines  of  her  fore- 
head that  she  was  coveting  for  Fernand  the  honors  and  the 
wealth  of  Felipe!  When  I  said  so  to  her,  she  would  reply  with 
tears,  laying  bare  the  wounds  of  a  heart,  which  of  right  was 
the  undivided  property  of  both  her  sons,  but  which  an  irre- 
sistible passion  gave  to  you  alone. 

Her  spirit,  therefore,  will  hover  joyfully  above  your 
heads  as  you  bow  them  at  the  altar.  My  mother,  have  you 
not  a  caress  for  your  Felipe  now  that  he  has  yielded  to  your 
favorite  even  the  girl  whom  you  regretfully  thrust  into  his 
arms?  What  I  have  done  is  pleasing  to  our  womankind, 
to  the  dead,  and  to  the  King;  it  is  the  will  of  God.  Make 
no  difficulty  then,  Fernand;  obey,  and  be  silent. 

P.S. — Tell  TJrraca  to  be  sure  and  call  me  nothing  but  M. 
He*narez.  Don't  say  a  word  about  me  to  Marie.  You  must 
be  the  one  living  soul  to  know  the  secrets  of  the  last  Chris- 
tianized Moor,  in  whose  veins  runs  the  blood  of  a  great 
family,  which  took  its  rise  in  the  desert  and  is  now  about 
to  die  out  in  the  person  of  a  solitary  exile.  Farewell. 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  455 

VII 

LOUISE   DE   CHAULIEU   TO   RENEE   DE   MAUCOMBE 


To  be  married  so  soon!  But  this  is  un- 
heard  of.  At  the  end  of  a  month  you  become 
engaged  to  a  man  who'  is  a  stranger  to  you,  and 
about  whom  you  know  nothing.  The  man  may  be  deaf  — 
there  are  so  many  kinds  of  deafness!  —  he  may  be  sickly, 
tiresome,  insufferable! 

Don't  you  see,  Een^e,  what  they  want  with  you?  You 
are  needful  for  carrying  on  the  glorious  stock  of  the  1'Esto- 
rades,  that  is  all.  You  will  be  buried  in  the  provinces.  Are 
these  the  promises  we  made  each  other?  Were  I  you,  I 
would  sooner  set  off  to  the  Hyeres  Islands  in  a  caique,  on 
the  chance  of  being  captured  by  an  Algerian  corsair  and  sold 
to  the  Grand  Turk.  Then  I  should  be  a  Sultana  some  day, 
and  wouldn't  I  make  a  stir  in  the  harem  while  I  was  young 
—  yes,  and  afterward  too! 

You  are  leaving  one  convent  to  enter  another.  I  know 
you;  you  are  a  coward,  and  you  will  submit  to  the  yoke  of 
family  life  with  a  lamblike  docility.  But  I  am  here  to  direct 
you;  you  must  come  to  Paris.  There  we  shall  drive  the  men 
wild  and  hold  a  court  like  queens.  Your  husband,  sweet- 
heart, in  three  years  from  now  may  become  a  member  of  the 
Chamber.  I  know  all  about  members  now,  and  I  will  explain 
it  to  you.  You  will  work  that  machine  very  well;  you  can 
live  in  Paris,  and  become  there  what  my  mother  calls  a 
woman  of  fashion.  Oh!  you  needn't  suppose  I  will  leave 
you  in  your  grange  ! 

Monday. 

FOR  a  whole  fortnight  now,  my  dear,  I  have  been  living 
the  life  of  society:  one  evening  at  the  Italiens,  another  at  the 
Grand  Opera,  and  always  a  ball  afterward.  Ah!  society  is 
a  witching  world.  The  music  of  the  Opera  enchants  me; 


456  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

and  while  my  soul  is  plunged  in  divine  pleasure,  I  am  the 
centre  of  admiration  and  the  focus  of  all  the  opera-glasses. 
But  a  single  glance  will  make  the  boldest  youth  drop  his 
eyes. 

I  have  seen  some  charming  young  men  there;  all  the 
same,  I  don't  care  for  any  of  them;  not  one  has  roused  in 
me  the  emotion  which  I  feel  when  I  listen  to  Garcia  in  his 
splendid  duet  with  Pellegrini  in  Othello.  Heavens!  how 
jealous  Rossini  must  have  been  to  express  jealousy  so 
well!  What  a  cry  in  "II  mio  cor  si  divide"  !  I'm  speaking 
Greek  to  you,  for  you  never  heard  Garcia,  but  then  you 
know  how  jealous  I  am ! 

What  a  wretched  dramatist  Shakespeare  is!  Othello  is 
in  love  with  glory;  he  wins  battles,  he  gives  orders,  he  struts 
about  and  is  all  over  the  place,  while  Desdemona  sits  at  home; 
and  Desdemona,  who  sees  herself  neglected  for  the  silly  fuss 
of  public  life,  is  quite  meek  all  the  time.  Such  a  sheep  de- 
serves to  be  slaughtered.  Let  the  man  whom  I  deign  to  love 
beware  how  he  thinks  of  anything  but  loving  me! 

For  my  part,  I  like  those  long  trials  of  the  old-fashioned 
chivalry.  That  lout  of  a  young  lord,  who  took  offence  be- 
cause his  sovereign  lady  sent  him  down  among  the  lions 
to  fetch  her  glove,  was,  in  my  opinion,  very  impertinent, 
and  a  fool  too.  Doubtless  the  lady  had  in  reserve  for  him 
some  exquisite  flower  of  love,  which  he  lost,  as  he  well 
deserved — the  puppy! 

But  here  am  I  running  on  as  though  I  had  not  a  great 
piece  of  news  to  tell  you!  My  father  is  certainly  going  to 
represent  our  master  the  King  at  Madrid.  I  say  OJ,T  master, 
for  I  shall  make  part  of  the  embassy.  My  mother  wishes  to 
remain  here,  and  my  father  will  take  me  so  as  to  have  some 
woman  with  him. 

My  dear,  this  seems  to  you,  no  doubt,  very  simple,  but 
there  are  horrors  behind  it,  all  the  same:  in  a  fortnight  I  have 
probed  the  secrets  of  the  house.  My  mother  would  accom- 
pany my  father  to  Madrid  if  he  would  take  M.  de  Canalis 
as  a  secretary  to  the  embassy.  But  the  King  appoints  the 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  457 

secretaries;  the  Duke  dare  neither  annoy  the  King,  who 
hates  to  be  opposed,  nor  vex  my  mother;  and  the  wily  diplo- 
mat believes  he  has  cut  the  knot  by  leaving  the  Duchess 
here.  M.  de  Canalis,  who  is  the  great  poet  of  the  day,  is  the 
young  man  who  cultivates  my  mother's  society,  and  who  no 
doubt  studies  diplomacy  with  her  from  three  o'clock  to  five. 
Diplomacy  must  be  a  fine  subject,  for  he  is  as  regular  as  a 
gambler  on  the  Stock  Exchange. 

The  Due  de  Rhdtore,  our  elder  brother,  solemn,  cold,  and 
whimsical,  would  be  extinguished  by  his  father  at  Madrid, 
therefore  he  remains  in  Paris.  Miss  Griffith  has  found  out 
also  that  Alphonse  is  iu  love  with  a  ballet  girl  at  the  Opera. 
How  is  it  possible  to  fall  in  love  with  legs  and  pirouettes? 
We  have  noticed  that  my  brother  comes  to  the  theatre  only 
when  Tullia  dances  there;  he  applauds  the  steps  of  this  creat- 
ure, and  then  goes  out.  Two  ballet-girls  in  a  family  are,  I 
fancy,  more  destructive  than  the  plague.  My  second  brother 
is  with  his  regiment,  and  I  have  not  yet  seen  him.  Thus  it 
comes  about  that  I  have  to  act  as  the  Antigone  of  His  Maj- 
esty's ambassador.  Perhaps  I  may  get  married  in  Spain, 
and  perhaps  my  father's  idea  is  a  marriage  there  without 
dowry,  after  the  pattern  of  yours  with  this  broken-down 
guard  of  honor.  My  father  asked  if  I  would  go  with  him, 
and  offered  me  the  use  of  his  Spanish  master. 

"Spain,  the  country  for  castles  in  the  air!"  I  cried.  "Per- 
haps you  hope  it  may  mean  marriages  for  me ! ' ' 

For  sole  reply  he  honored  me  with  a  meaning  look.  For 
some  days  he  has  amused  himself  with  teasing  me  at  lunch ; 
he  watches  me,  and  I  dissemble.  In  this  way  I  have  played 
with  him  cruelly  as  father  and  ambassador  in  petto.  Hadn't 
he  taken  me  for  a  fool?  He  asked  what  I  thought  of  this 
and  that  young  man,  and  of  some  girls  whom  1  had  met  in 
several  houses.  I  replied  with  quite  inane  remarks  on  the 
color  of  their  hair,  their  faces,  and  the  difference  in  their 
figures.  My  father  seemed  disappointed  at  my  crassness, 
and  inwardly  blamed  himself  for  having  asked  me. 

"Still,  father,"  I  added,  "don't  suppose  I  am  saying  what 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC — 20 


458  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

I  really  think:  mother  made  me  afraid  the  other  day  that  1 
had  spoken  more  frankly  than  I  ought  of  my  impressions. ' ' 

"With  your  family  you  can  speak  quite  freely,"  my 
mother  replied. 

"Very  well,  then,"  I  went  on.  "The  young  men  I  have 
met  so  far  strike  me  as  too  self-centred  to  excite  interest  in 
others;  they  are  much  more  taken  up  with  themselves  than 
with  their  company.  They  can't  be  accused  of  lack  of  can- 
dor at  any  rate.  They  put  on  a  certain  expression  to  talk  to 
us,  and  drop  it  again  in  a  moment,  apparently  satisfied  that 
we  don't  use  our  eyes.  The  man  as  he  converses  is  the  lover; 
silent,  he  is  the  husband.  The  girls,  again,  are  so  artificial 
that  it  is  impossible  to  know  what  they  really  are,  except 
from  the  way  they  dance;  their  figures  and  movements  alone 
are  not  a  sham.  But  what  has  alarmed  me  most  in  this  fash- 
ionable society  is  its  brutality.  The  little  incidents  which 
take  place  when  supper  is  announced  give  one  some  idea — 
to  compare  small  things  with  great — of  what  a  popular  rising 
might  be.  Courtesy  is  only  a  thin  veneer  on  the  general 
selfishness.  I  imagined  society  very  different.  Women 
count  for  little  in  it;  that  may  perhaps  be  a  survival  of 
Bonapartist  ideas. ' ' 

"  Armande  is  coming  on  extraordinarily, ' '  said  my  mother. 

"Mother,  did  you  think  I  should  never  get  beyond  asking 
to  see  Mme.  de  Stae'l?" 

My  father  smiled,  and  rose  from  the  table. 

Saturday. 

MY  DEAR,  I  have  left  one  thing  out.  Here  is  the  titbit  I 
have  reserved  for  you.  The  love  which  we  pictured  must 
be  extremely  well  hidden;  I  have  seen  not  a  trace  of  it. 
True,  I  have  caught  in  drawing-rooms  now  and  again  a  quick 
exchange  of  glances,  but  how  colorless  it  all  is!  Love,  as 
we  imagined  it,  a  world  of  wonders,  of  glorious  dreams,  of 
charming  realities,  of  sorrows  that  waken  sympathy,  and 
smiles  that  make  sunshine,  does  not  exist.  The  bewitching 
words,  the  constant  interchange  of  happiness,  the  misery  of 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  459 

absence,  the  flood  of  joy  at  the  presence  of  the  beloved  one 
— where  are  they?  What  soil  produces  these  radiant  flowers 
of  the  soul?  "Which  is  wrong?  We  or  the  world? 

I  have  already  seen  hundreds  of  men,  young  and  middle- 
aged;  not  one  has  stirred  the  least  feeling  in  me.  No  proof 
of  admiration  and  devotion  on  their  part,  not  even  a  sword 
drawn  in  my  behalf,  would  have  moved  me.  Love,  dear,  is 
the  product  of  such  rare  conditions  that  it  is  quite  possible 
to  live  a  lifetime  without  coming  across  the  being  on  whom 
nature  has  bestowed  the  power  of  making  one's  happiness. 
The  thought  is  enough  to  make  one  shudder;  for  if  this 
being  is  found  too  late,  what  then  ? 

For  some  days  I  have  begun  to  tremble  when  I  think  of 
the  destiny  of  women,  and  to  understand  why  so  many  wear 
a  sad  face  beneath  the  flush  brought  by  the  unnatural  excite- 
ment of  social  dissipation.  Marriage  is  a  mere  matter  of 
chance.  Look  at  yours.  A  storm  of  wild  thoughts  has 
passed  over  my  mind.  To  be  loved  every  day  the  same, 
yet  with  a  difference,  to  be  loved  as  much  after  ten  years  of 
happiness  as  on  the  first  day! — such  a  love  demands  years. 
The  lover  must  be  allowed  to  languish,  curiosity  must  be 
piqued  and  satisfied,  feeling  roused  and  responded  to. 

Is  there,  then,  a  law  for  the  inner  fruits  of  the  heart,  as 
there  is  for  the  visible  fruits  of  nature  ?  Can  joy  be  made 
lasting  ?  In  what  proportion  should  love  mingle  tears  with 
its  pleasures  ?  The  cold  policy  of  the  funereal,  monotonous, 
persistent  routine  of  the  convent  seemed  to  me  at  these  mo- 
ments the  only  real  life;  while  the  wealth,  the  splendor,  the 
tears,  the  delights,  the  triumph,  the  joy,  the  satisfaction,  of 
a  love  equal,  shared,  and  sanctioned,  appeared  a  mere  idle 
vision. 

I  see  no  room  in  this  city  for  the  gentle  ways  of  love,  for 
precious  walks  in  shady  alleys,  the  full  moon  sparkling  on 
the  water,  while  the  suppliant  pleads  in  vain.  Rich,  young, 
and  beautiful,  I  have  only  to  love,  and  love  would  become 
my  sole  occupation,  my  life;  yet  in  the  three  months  during 
which  I  have  come  and  gone,  eager  and  curious,  nothing  has 


460  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

appealed  to  me  in  the  bright,  covetous,  keen  eyes  around 
me.  No  voice  has  thrilled  me,  no  glance  has  made  the  world 
seem  brighter. 

Music  alone  has  filled  my  soul,  music  alone  has  at  all 
taken  the  place  of  our  friendship.  Sometimes,  at  night,  I 
will  linger  for  an  hour  by  my  window,  gazing  into  the  gar- 
den, summoning  the  future,  with  all  it  brings,  out  of  the 
mystery  which  shrouds  it.  There  are  days  too  when,  hav- 
ing started  for  a  drive,  I  get  out  and  walk  in  the  Champs 
Elysees,  and  picture  to  myself  that  the  man  who  is  to  waken 
my  slumbering  soul  is  at  hand,  that  he  will  follow  and  look 
at  me.  Then  I  meet  only  mountebanks,  venders  of  ginger- 
bread, jugglers,  passers-by  hurrying  to  their  business,  or 
lovers  who  try  to  escape  notice.  These  1  am  tempted  to 
stop,  asking  them,  "You  who  are  happy,  tell  me  what  is 
love?" 

But  the  impulse  is  repressed,  and  I  return  to  my  carriage, 
swearing  to  die  an  old  maid.  Love  is  undoubtedly  an  incar- 
nation, and  how  many  conditions  are  needful  before  it  can 
take  place!  We  are  not  certain  of  never  quarrelling  with 
ourselves,  how  much  less  so  when  there  are  two  ?  This  is 
a  problem  which  God  alone  can  solve. 

I  begin  to  think  that  I  shall  return  to  the  convent.  If  I 
remain  in  society,  I  shall  do  things  which  will  look  like  fol- 
lies, for  I  cannot  possibly  reconcile  myself  to  what  I  see.  I 
am  perpetually  wounded  either  in  my  sense  of  delicacy,  my 
inner  principles,  or  my  secret  thoughts. 

Ah!  my  mother  is  the  happiest  of  women,  adored  as  she 
is  by  Canalis,  her  great  little  man.  My  love,  do  you  know 
I  am  seized  sometimes  with  a  horrible  craving  to  know  what 
goes  on  between  my  mother  and  that  young  man  ?  Griffith 
tells  me  she  has  gone  through  all  these  moods;  she  has 
longed  to  fly  at  women,  whose  happiness  was  written  in 
their  face;  she  has  blackened  their  character,  torn  them  to 
pieces.  According  to  her,  virtue  consists  in  burying  all  these 
savage  instincts  in  one's  innermost  heart.  But  what  then  of 
the  heart,  ?  It  becomes  the  sink  of  all  that  is  worst  in  us. 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  461 

It  is  very  humiliating  that  no  adorer  has  yet  turned  up 
for  me.  I  am  a  marriageable  girl,  but  I  have  brothers,  a 
family,  relations,  who  are  sensitive  on  the  point  of  honor. 
Ah !  if  that  is  what  keeps  men  back,  they  are  poltroons. 

The  part  of  Chimene  in  the  "Cid"  and  that  of  the  Cid 
delight  me.  W  hat  a  marvellous  play !  Well,  good-by. 


VIII 

THE   SAME    TO    THE    SAME 

January. 

OUR  MASTER  is  a  poor  refugee,  forced  to  keep  in 
hiding  on  account  of  the  part  he  played  in  the 
revolution  which  the  Due  d'Angouleme  has  just 
quelled — a  triumph  to  which  we  owe  some  splendid  fetes. 
Though  a  Liberal,  and  doubtless  a  man  of  the  people,  he 
has  awakened  my  interest :  I  fancy  that  he  must  have  been 
condemned  to  death.  I  make  him  talk  for  the  purpose  of 
getting  at  his  secret;  but  he  is  of  a  truly  Castilian  taciturn- 
ity, proud  as  though  he  were  Gronsalvo  di  Cordova,  and 
nevertheless  angelic  in  his  patience  and  gentleness.  His 
pride  is  not  irritable  like  Miss  Griffith's,  it  belongs  to  his 
inner  nature;  he  forces  us  to  civility  because  his  own  man- 
ners are  so  perfect,  and  holds  us  at  a  distance  by  the  respect 
he  shows  us.  My  father  declares  that  there  is  a  great  deal 
of  the  nobleman  in  Senor  Henarez,  whom,  among  ourselves, 
he  calls  in  fun  Don  He'narez. 

A  few  days  ago  I  took  the  liberty  of  addressing  him 
thus.  He  raised  his  eyes,  which  are  generally  bent  on  the 
ground,  and  flashed  a  look  from  them  that  quite  abashed 
me;  my  dear,  he  certainly  has  the  most  beautiful  eyes  imag- 
inable. I  asked  him  if  I  had  offended  him  in  any  way,  and- 
he  said  to  rne  in  his  grand,  rolling  Spanish:  "I  am  here  only 
to  teach  you  Spanish." 

I  blushed,  and  felt  quite  snubbed.  I  was  on  the  point 
of  making  some  pert  answer,  when  I  remembered  what  <>ur 


4G2  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

dear  mother  in  (rod  used  to  say  to  us,  and  I  replied  instead : 
"It  would  be  a  kindness  to  tell  me  if  you  have  anything  to 
complain  of. ' ' 

A  tremor  passed  through  him,  the  blood  rose  in  his  olive 
cheeks;  he  replied  in  a  voice  of  some  emotion:  "Religion 
must  have  taught  you,  better  than  I  can,  to  respect  the  un- 
happy. Had  I  been  a  don  in  Spain,  and  lost  everything  in 
the  triumph  of  Ferdinand  VII.,  your  witticism  would  be 
unkind;  but  if  I  am  only  a  poor  teacher  of  languages,  is  it 
not  a  heartless  satire  ?  Neither  is  worthy  of  a  young  lady 
of  rank. ' ' 

I  took  his  hand,  saying:  "In  the  name  of  religion  also, 
I  beg  you  to  pardon  me. ' ' 

He  bowed,  opened  my  "Don  Quixote,"  and  sat  down. 

This  little  incident  disturbed  me  more  than  the  harvest 
of  compliments,  gazing,  and  pretty  speeches  on  my  most 
successful  evening.  During  the  lesson  I  watched  him  at- 
tentively, which  I  could  do  the  more  safely,  as  he  never 
looks  at  me. 

As  the  result  of  my  observations,  I  made  out  that  the 
tutor,  whom  we  took  to  be  forty,  is  a  young  man,  some  years 
under  thirty.  My  governess,  to  whom  I  had  handed  him 
over,  remarked  on  the  beauty  of  his  black  hair  and  of  his 
pearly  teeth.  As  to  his  eyes,  they  are  velvet  and  fire;  but 
here  ends  the  catalogue  of  his  good  points.  Apart  from 
this,  he  is  plain  and  insignificant.  Though  the  Spaniards 
have  been  described  as  not  a  cleanly  people,  this  man  is 
most  carefully  got  up,  and  his  hands  are  whiter  than  his 
face.  He  stoops  a  little,  and  has  an  extremely  large,  oddly- 
shaped  head.  His  ugliness,  which,  however,  has  a  dash  of 
piquancy,  is  aggravated  by  smallpox  marks,  which  seam  his 
face.  His  forehead  is  very  prominent,  and  the  shaggy  eye- 
brows meet,  giving  a  repellent  air  of  harshness.  There  is 
a  frowning,  plaintive  look  on  his  face,  reminding  one  of  a 
sickly  child  which  owes  its  life  to  superhuman  care,  as  Sis- 
ter Marthe  did.  As  my  father  observed,  his  features  are  a 
shrunken  reproduction  of  those  of  Cardinal  Ximenes.  The 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  463 

natural  dignity  of  our  tutor's  manners  seems  to  disconcert  the 
dear  Duke,  who  doesn't  like  him,  'and  is  never  at  ease  with 
him:  he  can't  bear  to  come  in  contact  with  superiority  of 
any  kind. 

As  soon  as  my  father  knows  enough  Spanish,  we'  start 
for  Madrid.  When  Henarez  returned,  two  days  after  the 
reproof  he  had  given  me,  I  remarked  by  way  of  showing  my 
gratitude:  "I  have  no  doubt  that  you  left  Spain  in  conse- 
quence of  political  events.  If  my  father  is  sent  there,  as 
seems  to  be  expected,  we  shall  be  in  a  position  to  help  you, 
and  might  be  able  to  obtain  your  pardon,  in  case  you  are 
under  sentence." 

"It  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  help  me,"  he  replied. 

"But,"  I  said,  "is  that  because  you  refuse  to  accept  any 
help,  or  because  the  thing  itself  is  impossible?" 

"Both,"  he  said,  with  a  bow,  and  in  a  tone  which  forbade 
continuing  the  subject. 

My  father's  blood  chafed  in  my  veins.  I  was  offended 
by  this  haughty  demeanor,  and  promptly  dropped  Senor 
Henarez. 

All  the  same,  my  dear,  there  is  something  fine  in  this  re- 
jection of  any  aid.  "He  would  not  accept  even  our  friend- 
ship," I  reflected,  while  conjugating  a  verb.  Suddenly  I 
stopped  short  and  told  him  what  was  in  my  mind,  but  in 
Spanish.  Henarez  replied  very  politely  that  equality  of 
sentiment  was  necessary  between  friends,  which  did  not 
exist  in  this  case,  and  therefore  it  was  useless  to  consider 
the  question. 

"Do  you  mean  equality  in  the  amount  of  feeling  on  either 
side,  or  equality  in  rank?"  I  persisted,  determined  to  shake 
him  out  of  his  provoking  gravity. 

He  raised  once  more  those  awe-inspiring  eyes,  and  mine 
fell  before  them.  Dear,  this  man  is  a  hopeless  enigma.  He 
seemed  to  ask  whether  my  words  meant  love;  and  the  mixt- 
ure of  joy,  pride,  and  agonized  doubt  in  his  glance  went  to 
my  heart.  It  was  plain  that  advances,  which  would  be  taken 
for  what  they  were  worth  in  France,  might  land  me  in  dim- 


BALZAC'S    WORKS 

culties  with  a  Spaniard,  and  I  drew  back  into  my  shell, 
feeling  not  a  little  foolish. 

The  lesson  over,  he  bowed,  and  his  eyes  were  eloquent 
of  the  humble  prayer:  "Don't  trifle  with  a  poor  wretch." 

This  sudden  contrast  to  his  usual  grave  and  dignified 
manner  made  a  great  impression  on  me.  It  seems  horrible 
to  think  and  to  say,  but  I  can't  help  believing  that  there  are 
treasures  of  affection  in  that  man. 


IX 

MME.  DE  L'ESTORADE  TO  MLLE.  DE  CHAULIEU 

December. 

//LL  18  OVER,  my  dear  child,  and  it  is  Mme.  de 
Sj  1'Estorade  who  writes  to  you.  But  between  us 
there  is  no  change;  it  is  only  a  girl  the  less. 

Don't  be  troubled;  I  did  not  give  my  consent  recklessly 
or  without  much  thought.  My  life  is  henceforth  mapped 
out  for  me,  and  the  freedom  from  all  uncertainty  as  to  the 
road  to  follow  suits  my  mind  and  disposition.  A  great 
moral  power  has  stepped  in,  and  once  for  all  swept  what 
we  call  chance  out  of  my  life.  We  have  the  property  to 
develop,  our  home  to  beautify  and  adorn;  for  me  there  is 
also  a  household  to  direct  and  sweeten  and  a  husband  to 
reconcile  to  life.  In  all  probability  I  shall  have  a  family 
to  look  after,  children  to  educate. 

What  would  you  have?  Every-day  life  cannot  be  cast 
in  heroic  mold.  No  doubt  there  seems,  at  any  rate  at  first 
sight,  no  room  left  in  this  scheme  of  life  for  that  longing 
after  the  infinite  which  expands  the  mind  and  soul.  But 
what  is  there  to  prevent  me  from  launching  on  that  bound- 
less sea  our  familiar  craft?  Nor  must  you  suppose  that  the 
humble  duties  to  which  I  dedicate  my  life  give  no  scope  for 
passion.  To  restore  faith  in  happiness  to  an  unfortunate, 
who  has  been  the  sport  of  adverse  circumstances,  is  a  noble 
work,  and  one  which  alone  may  suffice  to  relieve  the  monot- 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  465 

ony  of  my  existence.  I  can  see  no  opening  left  for  suffer- 
ing, and  I  see  a  great  deal  of  good  to  be  done.  I  need  not 
hide  from  you  that  the  love  I  have  for  Louis  de  1'Estorade 
is  not  of  the  kind  which  makes  the  heart  throb  at  the  sound 
of  a  step,  and  thrills  us  at  the  lightest  tones  of  a  voice,  or 
the  caress  of  a  burning  glance;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  there 
is  nothing  in  him  which  offends  me. 

"What  am  I  to  do,  you  will  ask,  with  that  instinct  for  all 
which  is  great  and  noble,  with  those  mental  energies  which 
have  made  the  link  between  us  and  which  we  still  possess  ? 
I  admit  that  this  thought  has  troubled  me.  But  are  these 
faculties  less  ours  because  we  keep  them  concealed,  using 
them  only  in  secret  for  the  welfare  of  the  family,  as  instru- 
ments to  produce  the  happiness  of  those  confided  to  our 
care,  to  whom  we  are  bound  to  give  ourselves  without  re- 
serve ?  The  time  during  which  a  woman  can  look  for  ad- 
miration is  short,  it  will  soon  be  past ;  and  if  my  life  has  not 
been  a  great  one,  it  will  at  least  have  been  calm,  tranquil, 
free  from  shocks. 

Nature  has  favored  our  sex  in  giving  us  a  choice  be- 
tween love  and  motherhood.  I  have  made  mine.  My 
children  shall  be  my  gods,  and  this  spot  of  earth  my 
Eldorado. 

I  can  say  no  more  to-day.  Thank  you  much  for  all  the 
things  you  have  sent  me.  Give  a  glance  at  my  needs  on 
the  inclosed  list.  I  am  determined  to  live  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  refinement  and  luxury,  and  to  take  from  provin- 
cial life  only  what  makes  its  charm.  In  solitude  a  woman 
can  never  be  vulgarized — she  remains  herself.  I  count 
greatly  on  your  kindness  for  keeping  me  up  to  the  fash- 
ion. My  father-in-law  is  so  delighted  that  he  can  refuse 
me  nothing,  and  turns  his  house  upside  down.  We  are 
getting  workpeople  from  Pahs  and  renovating  everything. 


466  BALZAC'S    WORKS 


MLLE.    DE   CHAULIEU   TO   MME.    I)E   L'ESTORADE 

January. 

OH!  RE  NEE,  you  have  made  me  miserable  for  days! 
So  that  bewitching  body,  those  beautiful  proud  fea- 
tures, that  natural  grace  of  manner,  that  soul  full  of 
priceless  gifts,  those  eyes,  where  the  soul  can  slake  its  thirst 
as  at  a  fountain  of  love,  that  heart  with  its  exquisite  delicacy, 
that  breadth  of  mind,  those  rare  powers — fruit  of  nature  and 
of  our  interchange  of  thought — treasures  whence  should  is- 
sue a  unique  satisfaction  for  passion  and  desire,  hours  of 
poetry  to  outweigh  years,  joys  to  make  a  man  serve  a  life- 
time for  one  gracious  gesture — all  this  is  to  be  buried  in 
the  tedium  of  a  tame,  commonplace  marriage,  to  vanish 
in  the  emptiness  of  an  existence  which  you  will  come  to 
loathe!  I  hate  your  children  before  they  are  born.  They 
will  be  monsters! 

So  you  know  all  that  lies  before  you ,  you  have  nothing 
left  to  hope,  or  fear,  or  suffer?  And  supposing  the  glori- 
ous morning  rises  which  will  bring  you  face  to  face  with 
the  man  destined  to  rouse  you  from  the  sleep  into  which 
you  are  plunging!  .  .  .  Ah!  a  cold  shiver  goes  through 
me  at  the  thought! 

Well,  at  least  you  have  a  friend.  You,  it  is  understood, 
are  to  be  the  guardian  angel  of  your  valley.  You  will  grow 
familiar  with  its  beauties,  will  live  with  it  in  all  its  aspects, 
till  the  grandeur  of  nature,  the  slow  growth  ^f  vegetation, 
compared  with  the  lightning  rapidity  of  thought,  become 
like  a  part  of  yourself;  and  as  your  eye  rests  on  the  laugh- 
ing flowers,  you  will  question  your  own  heart.  When  you 
walk  between  your  husband,  silent  and  contented,  in  front, 
and  your  children  screaming  and  romping  behind,  I  can 
tell  you  beforehand  what  you  will  write  to  me.  Your 
misty  valley,  your  hills,  bare  or  clothed  with  magnificent 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  467 

trees,  your  meadow,  the  wonder  of  Provence,  with  its  fresh 
water  dispersed  in  little  runlets,  the  different  effects  of  the 
atmosphere,  this  whole  world  of  infinity  which  laps  you 
round,  and  which  (rod  has  made  so  various,  will  recall  to 
you  the  infinite  sameness  of  your  soul's  life.  But  at  least 
I  shall  be  there,  my  Kenee,  and  in  me  you  will  find  a 
heart  which  no  social  pettiness  shall  ever  corrupt,  a  heart 
all  your  own. 

Monday. 

MY  DEAR,  my  Spaniard  is  quite  adorably  melancholy; 
there  is  something  calm,  severe,  manly,  and  mysterious 
about  him  which  interests  me  profoundly.  His  unvarying 
solemnity  and  the  silence  which  envelops  him  act  like  an 
irritant  on  the  mind.  His  mute  dignity  is  worthy  of  a 
fallen  king.  Griffith  and  I  spend  our  time  over  him  as 
though  he  were  a  riddle. 

How  odd  it  is!  A  language  master  captures  my  fancy 
as  no  other  man  has  done.  Yet  by  this  time  I  have  passed 
in  review  all  the  young  men  of  family,  the  attaches  to  em- 
bassies, and  the  ambassadors,  generals,  and  inferior  officers, 
the  peers  of  France,  their  sons  and  nephews,  the  court,  and 
the  town. 

The  coldness  of  the  man  provokes  me.  The  sandy  waste 
which  he  tries  to  place,  and  does  place,  between  us  is  cov- 
ered by  his  deep-rooted  pride;  he  wraps  himself  in  mystery. 
The  hanging  back  is  on  his  side,  the  boldness  on  mine.  This 
odd  situation  affords  me  the  more  amusement  because  the 
whole  thing  is  mere  trifling.  What  is  a  man,  a  Spaniard, 
and  a  teacher  of  languages  to  me  ?  I  make  no  account  of 
any  man  whatever,  v^ere  he  a  king.  We  are  worth  far 
more,  I  am  sure,  than  the  greatest  of  them.  What  a  slave 
I  would  have  made  of  Napoleon!  If  he  had  loved  me, 
shouldn't  he  have  felt  the  whip! 

Yesterday  I  aimed  a  shaft  at  M.  He'narez  which  must 
have  touched  him  to  the  quick.  He  made  no  reply;  the 
lesson  was  over,  and  he  bowed  with  a  glance  at  me,  in 
which  I  read  that  he  would  never  return.  This  suits  me 


4<;S  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

capitally;  there  would  be  something  ominous  in  starting 
an  imitation  "Nouvelle  Heloise."  I  have  just  been  read- 
ing Rousseau's,  and  it  has  left  me  with  a  strong  distaste 
for  love.  Passion  which  can  argue  and  moralize  seems  to 
me  detestable. 

Clarissa  also  is  much  too  pleased  with  herself  and  her 
long,  little  letter;  but  Kichardson's  work  is  an  admirable 
picture,  my  father  tells  me,  of  English  women.  Kous- 
seau's  seems  to  me  a  sort  of  philosophical  sermon,  cast  in 
the  form  of  letters. 

Love,  as  I  conceive  it,  is  a  purely  subjective  poem.  In 
all  that  books  tell  us  about  it,  there  is  nothing  which  is 
not  at  once  false  and  true.  And  so,  my  pretty  one,  as 
you  will  henceforth  be  an  authority  only  on  conjugal  love, 
it  seems  to  me  my  duty — in  the  interest,  of  course,  of  our 
common  life — to  remain  unmarried  and  have  a  grand  pas- 
sion, so  that  we  may  enlarge  our  experience. 

Tell  me  every  detail  of  what  happens  to  you,  especially 
in  the  first  few  days,  with  that  strange  animal  called  a  hus- 
band. I  promise  to  do  the  same  for  you  if  ever  I  am  loved. 

Farewell,  poor  martyred  darling. 


XI 

MME.  DE  L'ESTORADE  TO  MLLE.  DE  CHAULIED 

LA  CRAMPADE. 

rOUR  SPANIARD  and  you  make  me  shudder,  my 
darling.     I  write  this  line  to  beg  of  you  to  dismiss 
him.     All  that  you  say  of  him  corresponds  with  the 
character  of  those  dangerous  adventurers  who,  having  noth- 
ing to  lose,  will  take  any  risk.     This  man  cannot  be  your 
husband,  and  must  not  be  your  loverc     I  will  write  to  you 
more  fully  about  the  inner  history  of  my  married  life  when 
my  heart  is  free  from  the  anxiety  your  last  letter  has  roused 
in  it. 


469 
• 
XII 

MLLE.    DE   CHAULIEU   TO   MME.    DE.    I/ESTORADE 

February. 

sj  T  NINE  O'CLOCK  this  morning,  sweetheart,  my 
./"/  father  was  announced  in  my  rooms.  I  was  up  and 
dressed.  I  found  him  solemnly  seated  beside  the 
fire  in  the  drawing-room,  looking  more  thoughtful  than 
usual.  He  pointed  to  the  armchair  opposite  to  him.  Di- 
vining his  meaning,  I  sank  into  it  with  a  gravity  which 
so  well  aped  his  that  he  could  not  refrain  from  smiling, 
though  the  smile  was  dashed  with  melancholy. 

"You  are  quite  a  match  for  your  grandmother  in  quick- 
wittedriess, "  he  said. 

"Come,  father,  don't  play  the  courtier  here,"  I  replied; 
"you  want  something  from  me." 

He  rose,  visibly  agitated,  and  talked  to  me  for  half  an 
hour.  This  conversation,  dear,  really  ought  to  be  pre- 
served. As  soon  as  he  had  gone,  I  sat  down  to  my  table 
and  tried  to  recall  his  words.  This  is  the  first  time  that  I 
have  seen  my  father  revealing  his  inner  thoughts. 

He  began  by  nattering  me,  and  he  did  not  do  it  badly. 
I  was  bound  to  be  grateful  to  him  for  having  understood 
and  appreciated  me. 

"Armande,"  he  said,  "I  was  quite  mistaken  in  you,  and 
you  have  agreeably  surprised  me.  When  you  arrived  from 
the  convent,  I  took  you  for  an  average  young  girl,  ignorant 
and  not  particularly  intelligent,  easily  to  be  bought  off  with 
gewgaws  and  ornaments,  and  with  little  turn  for  reflection." 

"You  are  complimentary  to  young  girls,  father." 

"Oh!  there  is  no  such  thing  as  youth  nowadays,"  he  said, 
with  the  air  of  a  diplomat.  "Your  mind  is  amazingly  open. 
You  take  everything  at  its  proper  worth;  your  clear-sighted- 
ness is  extraordinary,  there  is  no  hoodwinking  you.  You 
pass  for  being  blind,  and  all  the  time  you  have  laid  your 
hand  on  causes,  while  other  people  are  still  puzzling  over 


470  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

effects.  In  short,  you  are  a  minister  in  petticoats,  the  only 
person  here  capable  of  understanding  me.  It  follows,  then, 
that  if  I  have  any  sacrifice  to  ask  from  you,  it  is  only  to  your- 
self I  can  turn  for  help  in  persuading  you. 

"I  am  therefore  going  to  explain  to  you,  quite  frankly, 
my  former  plans,  to  which  I  still  adhere.  In  order  to  rec- 
ommend them  to  you,  I  must  show  that  they  are  connected 
with  feelings  of  a  very  high  order,  and  I  shall  thus  be  obliged 
to  enter  into  political  questions  of  the  greatest  importance  to 
the  kingdom,  which  might  be  wearisome  to  any  one  less  in- 
telligent than  you  are.  When  you  have  heard  me,  I  hope 
you  will  take  time  for  consideration,  six  months  if  neces- 
sary. You  are  entirely  your  own  mistress;  and  if  you  de- 
cline to  make  the  sacrifice  I  ask,  I  shall  bow  to  your  decision 
and  trouble  you  no  further. ' ' 

This  preface,  my  sweetheart,  made  me  really  serious,  and 
I  said:  "Speak,  father." 

Here,  then,  is  the  deliverance  of  the  statesman: 

"My  child,  France  is  in  a  very  critical  position,  which  is 
understood  only  by  the  King  and  by  a  few  superior  minds. 
But  the  King  is  a  head  without  arms;  the  great  nobles,  who 
are  in  the  secret  of  the  danger,  have  no  authority  over  the 
men  whose  co-operation  is  needful  in  order  to  bring  about  a 
happy  result.  These  men,  cast  up  by  popular  election,  re- 
fuse to  lend  themselves  as  instruments.  Even  the  able  men 
among  them  carry  on  the  work  of  pulling  down  society,  in- 
stead of  helping  us  to  strengthen  the  edifice. 

"In  a  word,  there  are  only  two  parties — the  party  of 
Marius  and  the  party  of  Sulla.  I  am  for  Sulla  against 
Marius.  This,  roughly  speaking,  is  our  position.  To  go 
more  into  details:  the  Eevolution  is  still  active;  it  is  im- 
bedded in  the  law  and  written  on  the  soil;  it  fills  people's 
minds.  The  danger  is  all  the  greater  because  the  greater 
number  of  the  King's  counsellors,  seeing  it  destitute  of 
armed  forces  and  of  money,  believe  it  completely  van- 
quished. The  King  is  an  able  man,  and  not  easily 
blinded;  but  from  day  to  day  he  is  won  over  by  his 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  471 

brother's  partisans,  who  want  to  hurry  things  on.  He 
has  not  two  years  to  live,  and  thinks  more  of  a  peaceful 
deathbed  than  of  anything  else. 

"Shall  I  tell  you,  my  child,  which  is  the  most  destruc- 
tive of  all  the  consequences  entailed  by  the  Revolution  ? 
You  would  never  guess.  In  Louis  XVI.  the  Revolution 
has  decapitated  every  head  of  a  family.  The  family  has 
ceased  to  exist;  we  have  only  individuals.  In  their  desire 
to  become  a  nation,  Frenchmen  have  abandoned  the  idea 
of  empire;  in  proclaiming  the  equal  rights  of  all  children 
to  their  father's  inheritance,  they  have  killed  family  spirit 
and  have  created  the  State  treasury.  But  all  this  has  paved 
the  way  for  weakened  authority,  for  the  blind  force  of  the 
masses,  for  the  decay  of  art  and  the  supremacy  of  individ- 
ual interests,  and  has  left  the  road  open  to  the  foreign 
invader. 

"We  stand  between  two  policies — either  to  found  the 
State  on  the  basis  of  the  family,  or  to  rest  it  on  individual 
interest — in  other  words,  between  democracy  and  aristoc- 
racy, between  free  discussion  and  obedience,  between  Cathol- 
icism and  religious  indifference.  I  am  among  the  few  who 
are  resolved  to  oppose  what  is  called  the  people,  and  that  in 
the  people's  true  interest.  It  is  not  now  a  question  of  feudal 
rights,  as  fools  are  told,  nor  of  rank;  it  is  a  question  of  the 
State  and  of  the  existence  of  France.  The  country  which 
does  not  rest  on  the  foundation  of  paternal  authority  cannot 
be  stable.  That  is  the  foot  of  the  ladder  of  responsibility 
and  subordination,  which  has  for  its  summit  the  King. 

"The  King  stands  for  us  all.  To  die  for  the  King  is  to 
die  for  one's  self,  for  one's  family,  which,  like  the  kingdom, 
cannot  die.  All  animals  have  certain  instincts;  the  instinct 
of  man  is  for  family  life.  A  country  is  strong  which  con- 
sists of  wealthy  families,  every  member  of  whom  is  inter- 
ested in  defending  a  common  treasure;  it  is  weak  when 
composed  of  scattered  individuals,  to  whom  it  matters  little 
whether  they  obey  seven  or  one,  a  Russian  or  a  Corsican, 
so  long  as  each  keeps  his  own  plot  of  land,  blind,  in  their 


472  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

wretched  egotism,  to  the  fact  that  the  day  is  coming  Mrhen 
this  too  will  be  torn  from  them. 

"Terrible  calamities  are  in  store  for  us,  in  case  our  party 
fails.  Nothing  will  be  left  but  penal  or  fiscal  laws — your 
money  or  your  life.  The  most  generous  nation  on  the  earth 
will  have  ceased  to  obey  the  call  of  noble  instincts.  Wounds 
past  curing  will  have  been  fostered  and  aggravated,  an  all- 
pervading  jealousy  being  the  first.  Then  the  upper  classes 
will  be  submerged;  equality  of  desire  will  be  taken  for 
equality  of  strength;  true  distinction,  even  when  proved  and 
recognized,  will  be  threatened  by  the  advancing  tide  of  mid- 
dle-class prejudice.  It  was  possible  to  choose  one  man  out 
of  a  thousand,  but,  among  three  millions,  discrimination 
becomes  impossible,  when  all  are  moved  by  the  same  ambi- 
tions and  attired  in  the  same  livery  of  mediocrity.  No  fore- 
sight will  warn  this  victorious  horde  of  that  other  terrible 
horde,  soon  to  be  arrayed  against  them  in  the  peasant  pro- 
prietors; in  other  words,  twenty  million  acres  of  land,  alive, 
stirring,  arguing,  deaf  to  reason,  insatiable  of  appetite,  ob- 
structing progress,  masters  in  their  brute  force — " 

"But,"  said  I,  interrupting  my  father,  "what  can  I  do  to 
help  the  State?  I  feel  no  vocation  for  playing  Joan  of  Arc 
in  the  interests  of  the  family  or  for  finding  a  martyr's  block 
in  the  convent." 

"You  are  a  little  hussy,"  cried  my  father.  "If  I  speak 
sensibly  to  you,  you  are  full  of  jokes;  when  I  jest,  you  talk 
like  an  ambassadress." 

"Love  lives  on  contrasts,"  was  my  reply. 

And  he  laughed  till  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes. 

"You  will  reflect  on  what  I  have  told  you;  you  will  do 
justice  to  the  large  and  confiding  spirit  in  which  I  have 
broached  the  matter,  and  possibly  events  may  assist  my  plans. 
I  know  that,  so  far  as  you  are  concerned,  they  are  injurious 
and  unfair,  and  this  is  the  reason  why  I  appeal  for  your  sanc- 
tion of  them  less  to  your  heart  and  your  imagination  than 
to  your  reason.  I  have  found  more  judgment  and  common- 
sense  in  you  than  in  any  one  I  know — " 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  473 

"You  flatter  yourself,"  I  said,  with  a  smile,  "for  I  am 
every  inch  your  child!" 

"In  short,"  he  went  on,  "one  must  be  logical.  You  can't 
have  the  end  without  the  means,  and  it  is  our  duty  to  set  an 
example  to  others.  From  all  this  I  deduce  that  you  ought 
not  to  have  money  of  your  own  till  your  younger  brother  is 
provided  for,  and  I  want  to  employ  the  whole  of  your  inheri- 
tance in  purchasing  an  estate  for  him  to  go  with  the  title." 

"But,"  I  said,  "you  won't  interfere  with  my  living  in  my 
own  fashion  and  enjoying  life  if  I  leave  you  my  fortune?" 

"Provided,"  he  replied,  "that  your  view  of  life  does  not 
conflict  with  the  family  honor,  reputation,  and,  I  may  add, 
glory." 

"Come,  come,"  I  cried,  "what  has  become  of  my  excel- 
lent judgment?" 

"There  is  not  in  all  France,"  he  said  with  bitterness,  ua 
man  who  would  take  for  wife  a  daughter  of  one  of  our  noblest 
families  without  a  dowry  and  bestow  one  on  her.  If  such  a 
husband  could  be  found,  it  would  be  among  the  class  of  rich 
parvenus;  on  this  point  I  belong  to  the  eleventh  century." 

"And  I  also,"  I  said.  "But  why  despair?  Are  there 
no  aged  peers?" 

"You  are  an  apt  scholar,  Louise!"  he  exclaimed. 

Then  he  left  me,  smiling  and  kissing  my  hand. 

I  received  your  letter  this  very  morning,  and  it  led  me  to 
contemplate  that  abyss  into  which  you  say  that  I  may  fall. 
A  voice  within  seemed  to  utter  the  same  warning.  So  I  took 
my  precautions.  Henarez,  my  dear,  dares  to  look  at  me,  and 
his  eyes  are  disquieting.  They  inspire  me  with  what  I  can 
only  call  an  unreasoning  dread.  Such  a  man  ought  no  more 
to  be  looked  at  than  a  frog;  he  is  ugly  and  fascinating. 

For  two  days  I  have  been  hesitating  whether  to  tell  my 
father  pointblank  that  I  want  no  more  Spanish  lessons  and 
have  Hdnarez  sent  about  his  business.  But  in  spite  of  all 
my  brave  resolutions,  I  feel  that  the  horrible  sensation  which 
comes  over  me  when  I  see  that  man  has  become  necessary  to 
me.  I  say  to  myself,  "Once  more,  and  then  I  will  speak." 


474  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

His  voice,  my  dear,  is  sweetly  thrilling;  his  speaking 
is  just  like  la  Fodor's  singing.  His  manners  are  simple, 
entirely  free  from  affectation.  And  what  teeth ! 

Just  now,  as  he  was  leaving,  he  seemed  to  divine  the 
interest  I  take  in  him,  and  made  a  gesture — oh !  most  respect- 
fully— as  though  to  take  my  hand  and  kiss  it;  then  checked 
himself,  apparently  terrified  at  his  own  boldness  and  the 
chasm  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  bridging.  There  was  the 
merest  suggestion  of  all  this,  but  I  understood  it  and  smiled, 
for  nothing  is  more  pathetic  than  to  see  the  frank  impulse 
of  an  inferior  checking  itself  abashed.  The  love  of  a  plebeian 
for  a  girl  of  noble  birth  implies  such  courage! 

My  smile  emboldened  him.  The  poor  fellow  looked 
blindly  about  for  his  hat ;  he  seemed  determined  not  to  find 
it,  and  I  handed  it  to  him  with  perfect  gravity.  His  eyes 
were  wet  with  unshed  tears.  It  was  a  mere  passing  moment, 
yet  a  world  of  facts  and  ideas  were  contained  in  it.  We 
understood  each  other  so  well  that,  on  a  sudden,  I  held  out 
my  hand  for  him  to  kiss. 

Possibly  this  was  equivalent  to  telling  him  that  love 
might  bridge  the  interval  between  us.  Well,  I  cannot  tell 
what  moved  me  to  do  it.  Griffith  had  her  back  turned  as 
I  proudly  extended  my  little  white  paw.  I  felt  the  fire  of 
his  lips,  tempered  by  two  big  tears.  Oh !  my  love,  1  lay 
in  my  armchair,  nerveless,  dreamy.  I  was  happy,  and  I 
cannot  explain  to  you  how  or  why.  What  I  felt  only  a  poet 
could  express.  My  condescension,  which  fills  me  with  shame 
now,  seemed  to  me  then  something  to  be  proud  of;  he  had 
fascinated  me,  that  is  my  one  excuse. 

Friday. 

THIS  man  is  really  very  handsome.  He  talks  admirably, 
and  has  remarkable  intellectual  power.  My  dear,  he  is  a 
very  Bossuet  in  force  and  persuasiveness  when  he  explains 
the  mechanism,  not  only  of  the  Spanish  tongue,  but  also  of 
human  thought  and  of  all  language.  His  mother  tongue 
seems  to  be  French.  When  I  expressed  surprise  at  this, 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  475 

he  replied  that  he  came  to  France  when  quite  a  boy,  follow- 
ing the  King  of  Spain  to  Valengay. 

What  has  passed  within  this  enigmatic  being?  He  is  no 
longer  the  same  man.  He  came,  dressed  quite  simply,  but 
just  as  any  gentleman  would  be  for  a  morning  walk.  He 
put  forth  all  his  eloquence,  and  flashed  wit,  like  rays  from 
a  beacon,  all  through  the  lesson.  Like  a  man  roused  from 
lethargy,  he  revealed  to  me  a  new  world  of  thoughts.  He 
told  me  the  story  of  some  poor  devil  of  a  valet  who  gave 
up  his  life  for  a  single  glance  from  a  queen  of  Spain. 

"What  could  he  do  but  die?"  I  exclaimed. 

This  delighted  him,  and  he  looked  at  me  in  a  way  which 
was  truly  alarming. 

In  the  evening  I  went  to  a  ball  at  the  Duchesse  de  Lenon- 
court's.  The  Prince  de  Talleyrand  happened  to  be  there; 
and  I  got  M.  de  Vandenesse,  a  charming  young  man,  to  ask 
him  whether,  among  the  guests  at  his  country-place  in  1809, 
he  remembered  any  one  of  the  name  of  He*narez.  Vande- 
nesse reported  the  Prince's  reply  word  for  word,  as  follows: 

"Henarez  is  the  Moorish  name  of  the  Soria  family,  who 
are,  they  say,  descendants  of  the  Abencerrages,  converted 
to  Christianity.  The  old  Duke  and  his  two  sons  were  with 
the  King.  The  eldest,  the  present  Due  de  Soria,  has  just 
had  all  his  property,  titles,  and  dignities  confiscated  by  King 
Ferdinand,  who  in  this  way  avenges  a  long-standing  feud. 
The  Duke  made  a  huge  mistake  in  consenting  to  form  a  con- 
stitutional ministry  with  Valdez.  Happily,  he  escaped  from 
Cadiz  before  the  arrival  of  the  Due  d'AngoulSme,  who,  with 
the  best  will  in  the  world,  could  not  have  saved  him  from 
the  King's  wrath." 

This  information  gave  me  much  food  for  reflection.  I 
cannot  describe  to  you  the  suspense  in  which  I  passed  the 
time  till  my  next  lesson,  which  took  place  this  morning. 

During  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour  I  examined  him  closely, 
debating  inwardly  whether  he  were  duke  or  commoner,  with- 
out being  able  to  come  to  any  conclusion.  He  seemed  to 
read  my  fancies  as  they  arose  and  to  take  pleasure  in  thwart- 


476  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

ing  them.  At  last  I  could  endure  it  no  longer.  Putting 
down  my  book  suddenly,  I  broke  off  the  translation  I  was 
making  of  it  aloud,  and  said  to  him  in  Spanish: 

"You  are  deceiving  us.  You  are  no  poor  middle-class 
Liberal.  You  are  the  Due  de  Soria!" 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  replied,  with  a  gesture  of  sorrow, 
"unhappily,  I  am  not  the  Due  de  Soria." 

I  felt  all  the  despair  with  which  he  uttered  the  word 
"unhappily."  Ah!  my  dear,  never  should  I  have  conceived 
it  possible  to  throw  so  much  meaning  and  passion  into  a  single 
word.  His  eyes  had  dropped,  and  he  dared  no  longer  look 
at  me. 

"M.  de  Talleyrand,"  I  said,  "in  whose  house  you  spent 
your  }-ears  of  exile,  declares  that  any  one  bearing  the  name 
of  He'narez  must  be  either  the  late  Due  de  Soria  or  a  lackey. " 

He  looked  at  me  with  eyes  like  two  black  burning  coals, 
at  once  blazing  and  ashamed.  The  man  might  have  been  in 
the  torture-chamber.  All  he  said  was : 

"My  father  was  in-truth  a  servant  of  the  King  of  Spain." 

Griffith  could  make  nothing  of  this  sort  of  lesson.  An 
awkward  silence  followed  each  question  and  answer. 

"In  one  word,"  I  said,  "are  you  a  nobleman  or  not?" 

"You  know  that  in  Spain  even  beggars  are  noble." 

This  reticence  provoked  me.  Since  the  last  lesson  I  had 
given  play  to  my  imagination  in  a  little  practical  joke.  I 
had  drawn  an  ideal  portrait  of  the  man  whom  I  should  wish 
for  my  lover  in  a  letter  which  I  designed  giving  to  him  to 
translate.  So  far,  I  had  only  put  Spanish  into  French,  not 
French  into  Spanish;  I  pointed  this  out  to  him,  and  begged 
Griffith  to  bring  me  the  last  letter  I  had  received  from  a 
friend  of  mine. 

"I  shall  find  out,"  I  thought,  "from  the  effect  my  sketch 
has  on  him,  what  sort  of  blood  runs  in  his  veins." 

I  took  the  paper  from  Griffith's  hands,  saying:  "Let  me 
see  if  I  have  copied  it  rightly. "  For  it  was  all  in  my  writing. 

I  handed  him  the  paper,  or,  if  you  will,  the  snare,  and  I 
watched  him  while  he  read  as  follows: 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  477 

"He  who  is  to  win  my  heart,  my  dear,  must  be  harsh  and 
unbending  with  men,  but  gentle  with  women.  His  eagle  eye 
must  have  power  to  quell  with  a  single  glance  the  least  ap- 
proach to  ridicule.  He  will  have  a  pitying  smile  for  those 
who  would  jeer  at  sacred  things,  above  all,  at  that  poetry 
of  the  heart  without  which  life  would  be  but  a  dreary  com- 
monplace. I  have  the  greatest  scorn  for  those  who  would 
rob  us  of  the  living  fountain  of  religious  beliefs,  so  rich  in 
solace.  His  faith,  therefore,  should  have  the  simplicity  of 
a  child,  though  united  to  the  firm  conviction  of  an  intelli- 
gent man,  who  has  examined  the  foundations  of  his  creed. 
His  fresh  and  original  way  of  looking  at  things  must  be 
entirely  free  from  affectation  or  desire  to  show  off.  His 
words  will  be  few  and  fit,  and  his  mind  so  richly  stored  that 
he  cannot  possibly  become  a  bore  to  himself  any  more  than 
to  others. 

"All  his  thoughts  must  have  a  high  and  chivalrous  char- 
acter, without  alloy  of  self-seeking;  while  his  actions  should 
be  marked  by  a  total  absence  of  interested  or  sordid  motives. 
Any  weak  points  he  may  have  will  arise  from  the  very  eleva- 
tion of  his  views  above  those  of  the  common  herd,  for  in 
every  respect  I  would  have  him  superior  to  his  age.  Ever 
mindful  of  the  delicate  attentions  due  to  the  weak,  he  will 
be  gentle  to  all  women,  but  not  prone  lightly  to  fall  in  love 
with  any;  for  love  will  seem  to  him  too  serious  to  turn  into 
a  game. 

41  Thus  it  might  happen  that  he  would  spend  his  life  in 
ignorance  of  true  love,  while  all  the  time  possessing  those 
qualities  most  fitted  to  inspire  it.  But  if  ever  he  find  the 
ideal  woman  who  has  haunted  his  waking  dreams,  if  he  meet 
with  a  nature  capable  of  understanding  his  own,  one  who 
could  fill  his  soul  and  pour  sunshine  over  his  life,  could 
shine  as  a  star  through  the  mists  of  this  chill  and  gloomy 
world,  lend  fresh  charm  to  existence,  and  draw  music  from 
the  hitherto  silent  chords  of  his  being — needless  to  say,  he 
would  recognize  and  welcome  his  good  fortune. 

"And  she,  too,  would  be  happy.     Never,  by  word  or 


478  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

look,  would  he  wound  the  tender  heart  which  abandoned 
itself  to  him,  with  the  blind  trust  of  a  child  reposing  in  its 
mother's  arms.  For  were  the  vision  shattered,  it  would  be 
the  wreck  of  her  inner  life.  To  the  mighty  waters  of  love 
she  would  confide  her  all ! 

"The  man  I  picture  must  belong,  in  expression,  in  atti- 
tude, in  gait,  in  his  way  of  performing  alike  the  smallest  and 
the  greatest  actions,  to  that  race  of  the  truly  great  who  are 
always  simple  and  natural.  He  need  not  be  good-looking, 
but  his  hands  must  be  beautiful.  His  upper  lip  will  curl 
with  a  careless,  ironic  smile  for  the  general  public,  while  he 
reserves  for  those  he  loves  the  heavenly,  radiant  glance  in 
which  he  puts  his  soul." 

"Will  mademoiselle  allow  me,"  he  said  in  Spanish,  in  a 
voice  full  of  agitation,  "to  keep  this  writing  in  memory  of 
her?  This  is  the  last  lesson  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  giving 
her,  and  that  which  I  have  just  received  in  these  words  may 
serve  me  for  an  abiding  rule  of  life.  I  left  Spain,  a  fugitive 
and  penniless,  but  I  have  to-day  received  from  my  family 
a  sum  sufficient  for  my  needs.  You  will  allow  me  to  send 
some  poor  Spaniard  in  my  place." 

In  other  words,  he  seemed  to  me  to  say,  "This  little  game 
must  stop."  He  rose  with  an  air  of  marvellous  dignity,  and 
left  me  quite  upset  by  such  unheard-of  delicacy  in  a  man  of  his 
class.  He  went  downstairs  and  asked  to  speak  with  my  father. 

At  dinner  my  father  said  to  me  with  a  smile: 

"Louise,  you  have  been  learning  Spanish  from  an  ex- 
minister  and  a  man  condemned  to  death." 

"The  Due  de  Soria,"  I  said. 

"Duke!"  replied  my  father.  "No,  he  is  not  that  any 
longer;  he  takes  the  title  now  of  Baron  de  Macumer  from 
a  property  which  still  remains  to  him  in  Sardinia.  He  is 
something  of  an  original,  I  think." 

"Don't  brand  with  that  word,  which  with  you  always 
implies  some  mockery  and  scorn,  a  man  who  is  your  equal, 
and  who,  I  believe,  has  a  noble  nature." 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  479 

"Baronne  de  Macumer?"  exclaimed  my  father,  with  a 
laughing  glance  at  me. 

Pride  kept  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  table. 

"But,"  said  my  mother,  "Henarez  must  have  met  the 
Spanish  ambassador  on  the  steps?" 

"  Y"es, "  replied  my  father,  "the  ambassador  asked  me  if  I 
was  conspiring  against  the  King,  his  master;  but  he  greeted 
the  ex-grandee  of  Spain  with  much  deference,  and  placed 
his  services  at  his  disposal." 

All  this,  dear  Mme.  de  1'Estorade,  happened  a  fortnight 
ago,  and  it  is  a  fortnight  now  since  I  have  seen  the  man  who 
loves  me,  for  that  he  loves  me  there  is  not  a  doubt.  What 
is  he  about  ?  If  only  I  were  a  fly,  or  a  mouse,  or  a  sparrow ! 
I  want  to  see  him  alone,  myself  unseen,  at  his  house.  Only 
think,  a  man  exists,  to  whom  I  can  say,  "Go  and  die  for 
me!"  And  he  is  so  made  that  he  would  go,  at  least  I  think 
so.  Anyhow,  there  is  in  Paris  a  man  who  occupies  my 
thoughts,  and  whose  glance  pours  sunshine  into  my  soul. 
Is  not  such  a  man  an  enemy,  whom  I  ought  to  trample 
underfoot?  What?  There  is  a  man  who  has  become 
necessary  to  me — a  man  without  whom  I  don't  know  how 
to  live!  You  married,  and  I — in  love!  Four  little  months, 
and  those  two  doves,  whose  wings  erst  bore  them  so  high, 
have  fluttered  down  upon  the  flat  stretches  of  real  life! 

Sunday. 

YESTERDAY,  at  the  Italian  Opera,  I  could  feel  some  one 
was  looking  at  me;  my  eyes  were  drawn,  as  by  a  magnet,  to 
two  wells  of  fire,  gleaming  like  carbuncles  in  a  dim  corner 
of  the  orchestra.  Henarez  never  moved  his  eyes  from  me. 
The  wretch  had  discovered  the  one  spot  from  which  he  could 
see  me — and  there  he  was.  I  don't  know  what  he  may  be 
as  a  politician,  but  for  love  he  has  a  genius. 

"Behold,  my  fair  Renee,  where  our  business  now  stands," 

as  the  great  Corneille  has  said. 


480  BALZAC'S    WORKS 


XIII 

MME.  DE  L'ESTORADE  TO  MLLE.  DE  CHAULIEU 

LA  CRAMPADE,  February. 

~m  /rY  DEAR  LOUISE — I  was  bound  to  wait  some 
/\/i  time  before  writing  to  you;  but  now  I  know,  or 
rather  I  have  learned,  many  things  which,  for  the 
sake  of  your  future  happiness,  I  must  tell  you.  The  differ- 
ence between  a  girl  and  a  married  woman  is  so  vast  that  the 
girl  can  no  more  comprehend  it  than  the  married  woman  can 
go  back  to  girlhood  again. 

I  chose  to  marry  Louis  de  1'Estorade  rather  than  return 
to  the  convent;  that  at  least  is  plain.  So  soon  as  I  realized 
that  the  convent  was  the  only  alternative  to  marrying  Louis, 
I  had,  as  girls  say,  to  "submit,"  and  my  submission  once 
made,  the  next  thing  was  to  examine  the  situation  and  try 
to  make  the  best  of  it. 

The  serious  nature  of  what  I  was  undertaking  filled  me 
at  first  with  terror.  Marriage  is  a  matter  concerning  the 
whole  of  life,  while  love  aims  only  at  pleasure.  On  the 
other  hand,  marriage  will  remain  when  pleasures  have  van- 
ished, and  it  is  the  source  of  interests  far  more  precious  than 
those  of  the  man  and  woman  entering  on  the  alliance.  Might 
it  not  therefore  be  that  the  only  requisite  for  a  happy  mar- 
riage was  friendship — a  friendship  which,  for  the  sake  of 
these  advantages,  would  shut  its  eyes  to  many  of  the  imper- 
fections of  humanity?  Now  there  was  no  obstacle  to  the 
existence  of  friendship  between  myself  and  Louis  de  1'Es- 
torade.  Having  renounced  all  idea  of  finding  in  marriage 
those  transports  of  love  on  which  our  minds  used  so  often, 
and  with  such  perilous  rapture,  to  dwell,  I  found  a  gentle 
calm  settling  over  me.  "If  debarred  from  love,  why  not 
seek  for  happiness?"  I  said  to  myself.  "Moreover,  I  am 
loved,  and  the  love  offered  me  I  shall  accept.  My  married 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  481 

life  will  be  no  slavery,  but  rather  a  perpetual  reign.  What 
is  there  to  say  against  such  a  situation  for  a  woman  who 
wishes  to  remain  absolute  mistress  of  herself?" 

The  important  point  of  separating  marriage  from  marital 
rights  was  settled  in  a  conversation  between  Louis  and  me, 
in  the  course  of  which  he  gave  proof  of  an  excellent  temper 
and  a  tender  heart.  Darling,  my  desire  was  to  prolong  that 
fair  season  of  hope  which,  never  culminating  in  satisfaction, 
leaves  to  the  soul  its  virginity.  To  grant  nothing  to  duty 
or  the  law,  to  be  guided  entirely  by  one's  own  will,  retain- 
ing perfect  independence — what  could  be  more  attractive, 
more  honorable? 

A  contract  of  this  kind,  directly  opposed  to  the  legal 
contract,  and  even  to  the  sacrament  itself,  could  be  con- 
cluded only  between  Louis  and  me.  This  difficulty,  the 
first  which  has  arisen,  is  the  only  one  which  has  delayed 
the  completion  of  our  marriage.  Although,  at  first,  I  may 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  accept  anything  rather  than  re- 
turn to  the  convent,  it  is  only  in  human  nature,  having  got 
an  inch,  to  ask  for  an  ell,  and  you  and  I,  sweet  love,  are  of 
those  who  would  have  all. 

I  watched  Louis  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye,  and  put  it 
to  myself,  "Has  suffering  had  a  softening  or  a  hardening 
effect  on  him?"  By  dint  of  close  study,  I  arrived  at  the 
conclusion  that  his  love  amounted  to  a  passion.  Once  trans- 
formed into  an  idol,  whose  slightest  frown  would  turn  him 
white  and  trembling,  I  realized  that  I  might  venture  any- 
thing. I  drew  him  aside  in  the  most  natural  manner  on 
solitary  walks,  during  which  1  discreetly  sounded  his  feel- 
ings. I  made  him  talk,  and  got  him  to  expound  to  me  his 
ideas  and  plans  for  our  future.  My  questions  betrayed  so 
many  preconceived  notions,  and  went  so  straight  for  the 
weak  points  in  this  terrible  dual  existence,  that  Louis  has 
since  confessed  to  me  the  alarm  it  caused  him  to  find  in 
me  so  little  of  the  ignorant  maiden. 

Then  I  listened  to  what  he  had  to  say  in  reply.  He  got 
mixed  up  in  his  arguments,  as  people  do  when  handicapped 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC— 21 


482  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

by  fear;  and  before  long  it  became  clear  that  chance  had 
given  me  for  adversary  one  who  was  the  less  fitted  for  the 
contest  because  he  was  conscious  of  what  you  magniloquently 
call  my  "greatness  of  soul."  Broken  by  sufferings  and  mis- 
fortune, he  looked  on  himself  as  a  sort  of  wreck,  and  three 
fears  in  especial  haunted  hirn. 

First,  we  are  aged  respectively  thirty-seven  and  seven- 
teen; and  he  could  not  contemplate  without  quaking  the 
twenty  years  that  divide  us.  In  the  next  place,  he  shares 
our  views  on  the  subject  of  my  beauty,  and  it  is  cruel  for 
him  to  see  how  the  hardships  of  his  life  have  robbed  him  of 
youth.  Finally,  he  felt  the  superiority  of  my  womanhood 
over  his  manhood.  The  consciousness  of  these  three  obvi- 
ous drawbacks  made  him  distrustful  of  himself;  he  doubted 
his  power  to  make  me  happy,  and  guessed  that  he  had  been 
chosen  as  the  lesser  of  two  evils. 

One  evening  he  tentatively  suggested  that  I  only  married 
him  to  escape  the  convent. 

"I  cannot  deny  it,"  was  my  grave  reply. 

My  dear,  it  touched  me  to  the  heart  to  see  the  two  great 
tears  which  stood  in  his  eyes.  Never  before  had  I  experi- 
enced the  shock  of  emotion  which  a  man  can  impart  to  us. 

"Louis,"  I  went  on,  as  kindly  as  I  could,  "it  rests  en- 
tirely with  you  whether  this  marriage  of  convenience  becomes 
one  to  which  I  can  give  my  whole  heart.  The  favor  I  am 
about  to  ask  from  you  will  demand  unselfishness  on  your 
part,  far  nobler  than  the  servitude  to  which  a  man's  love, 
when  sincere,  is  supposed  to  reduce  him.  The  question  is, 
Can  you  rise  to  the  height  of  friendship  such  as  I  under- 
stand it? 

"Life  gives  us  but  one  friend,  and  I  wish  to  be  yours. 
Friendship  is  the  bond  between  a  pair  of  kindred  souls, 
united  in  their  strength,  and  yet  independent.  Let  us  be 
friends  and  comrades  to  bear  jointly  the  burden  of  life. 
Leave  me  absolutely  free.  I  would  put  no  hindrance  in 
the  way  of  your  inspiring  me  with  a  love  similar  to  your 
own;  but  I  am  determined  to  be  yours  only  of  my  own  free 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  483 

gift.  Create  in  me  the  wish  to  give  up  my  freedom,  and  at 
once  I  lay  it  at  your  feet. 

"Infuse  with  passion,  then,  if  you  will,  this  friendship, 
and  let  the  voice  of  love  disturb  its  calm.  On  my  part  I 
will  do  what  I  can  to  bring  my  feelings  into  accord  with 
yours.  One  thing,  above  all,  I  would  beg  of  you.  Spare 
me  the  annoyances  to  which  the  strangeness  of  our  mutual 
position  might  give  rise  in  our  relations  with  others.  I  am 
neither  whimsical  nor  prudish,  and  should  be  sorry  to  get 
that  reputation;  but  I  feel  sure  that  I  can  trust  to  your 
honor  when  I  ask  you  to  keep  up  the  outward  appearance 
of  wedded  life." 

Never,  dear,  have  I  seen  a  man  so  happy  as  my  proposal 
made  Louis.  The  blaze  of  joy  which  kindled  in  his  eyes 
dried  up  the  tears. 

"Do  not  fancy,"  I  concluded,  "that  I  ask  this  from  any 
wish  to  be  eccentric.  It  is  the  great  desire  I  have  for  your 
respect  which  prompts  my  request.  If  you  owe  the  crown 
of  your  love  merely  to  the  legal  and  religious  ceremony,  what 
gratitude  could  you  feel  to  me  later  for  a  gift  in  which  my 
goodwill  counted  for  nothing  ?  If  during  the  time  that  I 
remained  indifferent  to  you  (yielding  only  a  passive  obedi- 
ence, such  as  my  mother  has  just  been  urging  on  me)  a  child 
were  born  to  us,  do  you  suppose  that  I  could  feel  toward  it 
as  I  would  toward  one  born  of  our  common  love  ?  A  pas- 
sionate love  may  not  be  necessary  in  marriage,  but,  at  least, 
you  will  admit- that  there  should  be  no  repugnance.  Our 
position  will  not  be  without  its  dangers;  in  a  country  life, 
such  as  ours  will  be,  ought  we  not  to  bear  in  mind  the 
evanescent  nature  of  passion?  Is  it  not  simple  prudence 
to  make  provision  beforehand  against  the  calamities  incident 
to  change  of  feeling?" 

He  was  greatly  astonished  to  find  me  at  once  so  reason- 
able and  so  apt  at  reasoning;  but  he  made  me  a  solemn  prom- 
ise, after  which  I  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it  affectionately. 

We  were  married  at  the  end  of  the  week.  Secure  of  my 
freedom,  I  was  able  to  throw  myself  gayly  into  the  petty  de- 


484  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

tails  which  always  accompany  a  ceremony  of  the  kind,  and 
to  be  my  natural  self.  Perhaps  I  may  have  been  taken  for 
an  old  bird,  as  they  say  at  Blois.  A  young  girl,  delighted 
with  the  novel  and  hopeful  situation  she  had  contrived  to 
make  for  herself,  may  have  passed  for  a  strong-minded 
female. 

Dear,  the  difficulties  which  would  beset  my  life  had  ap- 
peared to  me  clearly  as  in  a  vision,  and  I  was  sincerely  anx- 
ious to  make  the  happiness  of  the  man  I  married.  Now,  in 
the  solitude  of  a  life  like  ours,  marriage  soon  becomes  intol- 
erable unless  the  woman  is  the  presiding  spirit.  A  woman 
in  such  a  case  needs  the  charm  of  a  mistress,  combined  with 
the  solid  qualities  of  a  wife.  To  introduce  an  element  of 
uncertainty  into  pleasure  is  to  prolong  illusion,  and  render 
lasting  those  selfish  satisfactions  which  all  creatures  hold, 
and  justly  hold,  so  precious.  Conjugal  love,  in  my  view 
of  it,  should  shroud  a  woman  in  expectancy,  crown  her  sov- 
ereign, and  invest  her  with  an  exhaustless  power,  a  redun- 
dancy of  life,  that  makes  everything  blossom  around  her. 
The  more  she  is  mistress  of  herself,  the  more  certainly  will 
the  love  and  happiness  she  creates  be  fit  to  weather  the  storms 
of  life. 

Bat,  above  all,  I  have  insisted  on  the  greatest  secrecy  in 
regard  to  our  domestic  arrangements.  A  husband  who  sub- 
mits to  his  wife's  yoke  is  justly  held  an  object  of  ridicule. 
A  woman's  influence  ought  to  be  entirely  concealed.  The 
charm  of  all  we  do  lies  in  its  unobtrusiveness.  If  I  have 
made  it  my  task  to  raise  a  drooping  courage  and  restore  their 
natural  brightness  to  gifts  which  I  have  dimly  described,  it 
must  all  seem  to  spring  from  Louis  himself. 

Such  is  the  mission  to  which  I  dedicate  myself,  a  mission 
surely  not  ignoble,  and  which  might  well  satisfy  a  woman's 
ambition.  Why,  I  could  glory  in  this  secret  which  shall  fill 
my  life  with  interest,  in  this  task  toward  which  my  every 
energy  shall  be  bent,  while  it  remains  concealed  from  all  but 
God  and  you. 

I  am  very  nearly  happy  now,  but  should  I  be  so  without 


LETTERS    OF   TWO   BRIDES  485 

a  friendly  heart  in  which  to  pour  the  confession  ?  For  how 
make  a  confidant  of  him  ?  My  happiness  would  wound  him, 
and  has  to  be  concealed.  He  is  sensitive  as  a  woman,  like 
all  men  who  have  suffered  much. 

For  three  months  we  remained  as  we  were  before  mar- 
riage. As  you  may  imagine,  during  this  time  I  made  a 
close  study  of  many  small  personal  matters,  which  have 
more  to  do  with  love  than  is  generally  supposed.  In  spite 
of  my  coldness,  Louis  grew  bolder,  and  his  nature  ex- 
panded. I  saw  on  his  face  a  new  expression,  a  look  of 
youth.  The  greater  refinement  which  I  introduced  into  the 
house  was  reflected  in  his  person.  Insensibly  I  became  ac- 
customed to  his  presence,  and  made  another  self  of  him.  By 
dint  of  constant  watching  I  discovered  how  his  mind  and 
countenance  harmonize.  "The  animal  that  we  call  a  hus- 
band," to  quote  your  words,  disappeared,  and  one  balmy 
evening  I  discovered  in  his  stead  a  lover,  whose  words 
thrilled  me  and  on  whose  arm  I  leaned  with  pleasure  be- 
yond words.  In  short,  to  be  open  with  you,  as  I  would  be 
with  God,  before  whom  concealment  is  impossible,  the  per- 
fect loyalty  with  which  he  had  kept  his  oath  may  have 
piqued  me,  and  I  felt  a  fluttering  of  curiosity  in  my  heart. 
Bitterly  ashamed,  I  struggled  with  myself.  Alas!  when 
pride  is  the  only  motive  for  resistance,  excuses  for  capitu- 
lation are  soon  found. 

We  celebrated  our  union  in  secret,  and  secret  it  must 
remain  between  us.  When  you  are  married  you  will  ap- 
prove this  reserve.  Enough  that  nothing  was  lacking  either 
of  satisfaction  for  the  most  fastidious  sentiment,  or  of  that 
unexpectedness  which  brings,  in  a  sense,  its  own  sanction. 
Every  witchery  of  imagination,  of  passion,  of  reluctance 
overcome,  of  the  ideal  passing  into  reality,  played  its  part. 

Yet,  spite  of  all  this  enchantment,  I  once  more  stood  out 
for  my  complete  independence.  I  can't  tell  you  all  my  rea- 
sons for  this.  To  you  alone  shall  I  confide  even  as  much  as 
this.  I  believe  that  women,  whether  passionately  loved  or 
not,  lose  much  in  their  relation  with  their  husbands  by  not 


486  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

concealing  their  feelings  about  marringe  and  the  way  they 
look  at  it. 

My  one  joy,  and  it  is  supreme,  springs  from  the  cer- 
tainty of  having  brought  new  life  to  my  husband  before  I 
have  borne  him  any  children.  Louis  has  regained  his 
youth,  strength,  and  spirits.  He  is  not  the  same  man. 
With  magic  touch  I  have  effaced  the  very  memory  of  his 
sufferings.  It  is  a  complete  metamorphosis.  Louis  is 
really  very  attractive  now.  Feeling  sure  of  my  affection, 
he  throws  off  his  reserve  and  displays  unsuspected  gifts. 

To  be  the  unceasing  spring  of  happiness  for  a  man  who 
knows  it  and  adds  gratitude  to  love,  ah !  dear  one,  this  is  a 
conviction  which  fortifies  the  soul,  even  more  than  the  most 
passionate  love  can  do.  The  force  thus  developed — at  once 
impetuous  and  enduring,  simple  and  diversified — brings  forth 
ultimately  the  family,  that  noble  product  of  womanhood, 
which  I  realize  now  in  all  its  animating  beauty. 

The  old  father  has  ceased  to  be  a  miser.  He  gives 
blindly  whatever  I  wish  for.  The  servants  are  content; 
it  seems  as  though  the  bliss  of  Louis  had  let  a  flood  of 
sunshine  into  the  household,  where  love  has  made  me 
queen.  Even  the  old  man  would  not  be  a  blot  upon  my 
pretty  home,  and  has  brought  himself  into  line  with  all  my 
improvements;  to  please  me  he  has  adopted  the  dress,  and 
with  the  dress,  the  manners  of  the  day. 

We  have  English  horses,  a  coupe,  a  barouche,  and  a 
tilbury.  The  livery  of  our  servants  is  simple  but  in  good 
taste.  Of  course  we  are  looked  on  as  spendthrifts.  I  ap- 
ply all  my  intellect  (I  am  speaking  quite  seriously)  to  man- 
aging my  household  with  economy,  and  obtaining  for  it  the 
maximum  of  pleasure  with  the  minimum  of  cost. 

I  have  already  convinced  Louis  of  the  necessity  of  get- 
ting roads  made,  in  order  that  he  may  earn  the  reputation 
of  a  man  interested  in  the  welfare  of  his  district.  I  insist 
too  on  his  studying  a  great  deal.  Before  long  I  hope  to 
see  him  a  member  of  the  Council  General  of  the  depart- 
ment, through  the  influence  of  my  family  and  his  mother's. 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  487 

I  have  told  him  plainly  that  I  am  ambitious,  and  that  I  was 
very  well  pleased  his  father  should  continue  to  look  after  the 
estate  and  practice  economies,  because  I  wished  him  to  de- 
vote himself  exclusively  to  politics.  If  we  had  children,  I 
should  like  to  see  them  all  prosperous  and  with  good  State 
appointments.  Under  penalty,  therefore,  of  forfeiting  my 
esteem  and  affection,  he  must  get  himself  chosen  deputy 
for  the  department  at  the  coming  elections;  my  family 
would  support  his  candidature,  and  we  should  then  have 
the  delight  of  spending  all  our  winters  in  Paris.  Ah!  my 
love,  by  the  ardor  with  which  he  embraced  my  plans,  I  can 
gauge  the  depth  of  his  affection. 

To  conclude,  here  is  a  letter  he  wrote  me  yesterday  from 
Marseilles,  where  he  had  gone  to  spend  a  few  hours: 

"MY  SWEET  BENEE — When  you  gave  me  permission  to 
love  you,  I  began  to  believe  in  happiness ;  now,  I  see  it  un- 
folding endlessly  before  me.  The  past  is  merely  a  dim  mem- 
ory, a  shadowy  background,  without  which  my  present  bliss 
would  show  less  radiant.  When  I  am  with  you,  love  so 
transports  me  that  I  am  powerless  to  express  the  depth  of 
my  affection;  I  can  but  worship  and  admire.  Only  at  a 
distance  does  the  power  of  speech  return.  You  are  su- 
premely beautiful,  Kene'e,  and  your  beauty  is  of  the  stat- 
uesque and  regal  type,  on  which  time  leaves  but  little 
impression.  No  doubt  the  love  of  husband  and  wife  de- 
pends less  on  outward  beauty  than  on  grace  of  character, 
which  are  yours  also  in  perfection;  still,  let  me  say  that 
the  certainty  of  having  your  unchanging  beauty,  on  which 
to  feast  my  eyes,  gives  me  a  joy  that  grows  with  every 
glance.  There  is  a  grace  and  dignity  in  the  lines  of  your 
face,  expressive  of  the  noble  soul  within,  and  breathing  of 
purity  beneath  the  vivid  coloring.  The  brilliance  of  your 
dark  eyes,  the  bold  sweep  of  your  forehead,  declare  a  spirit 
of  no  common  elevation,  sound  and  trustworthy  in  every 
relation,  and  well  braced  to  meet  the  storms  of  life,  should 
such  arise.  The  keynote  of  your  character  is  its  freedom 


488  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

from  all  pettiness.  You  do  not  need  to  be  told  all  this; 
but  I  write  it  because  I  would  have  you  know  that  1  ap- 
preciate the  treasure  I  possess.  Your  favors  to  me,  how- 
ever slight,  will  always  make  my  happiness  in  the  far 
distant  future  as  now;  for  I  am  sensible  how  much  dignity 
there  is  in  our  promise  to  respect  each  other's  liberty.  Our 
own  impulse  shall  with  us  alone  dictate  the  expression  of 
feeling.  "We  shall  be  free  even  in  our  fetters.  I  shall  have 
the  more  pride  in  wooing  you  again  now  that  I  know  the  re- 
ward you  place  on  victory.  You  cannot  speak,  breathe,  act, 
or  think,  without  adding  to  the  admiration  I  feel  for  your 
charm  both  of  body  and  mind.  There  is  in  you  a  rare 
combination  of  the  ideal,  the  practical,  and  the  bewitching 
which  satisfies  alike  judgment,  a  husband's  pride,  desire, 
and  hope,  and  which  extends  the  boundaries  of  love  be- 
yond those  of  life  itself.  Oh!  my  loved  one,  may  the 
genius  of  love  remain  faithful  to  me,  and  the  future  be 
full  of  those  delights  by  means  of  which  you  have  glori- 
fied all  that  surrounds  me!  1  long  for  the  day  which  shall 
make  you  a  mother,  that  I  may  see  you  content  with  the 
fulness  of  your  life,  may  hear  you,  in  the  sweet  voice  I 
love  and  with  the  words  that  so  marvellously  express  your 
subtle  and  original  thoughts,  bless  the  love  which  has  re- 
freshed my  soul  and  given  new  vigor  to  my  powers,  the 
love  which  is  my  pride,  and  whence  I  have  drawn,  as  from 
a  magic  fountain,  fresh  life.  Yes,  I  shall  be  all  that  you 
would  have  me.  I  shall  take  a  leading  part  in  the  public 
life  of  the  district,  and  on  you  shall  fall  the  rays  of  a  glory 
which  will  owe  its  existence  to  the  desire  of  pleasing  you. ' ' 

So  much  for  my  pupil,  dear!  Do  you  suppose  he  could 
have  written  like  this  before  ?  A  year  hence  his  style  will 
have  still  further  improved.  Louis  is  now  in  his  first  trans- 
port; what  I  look  forward  to  is  the  uniform  and  continuous 
sensation  of  content  which  ought  to  be  the  fruit  of  a  happy 
marriage,  when  a  man  and  woman,  in  perfect  trust  and  mu- 
tual knowledge,  have  solved  the  problem  of  giving  variety 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  489 

to  the  infinite.  This  is  tlie  task  set  before  every  true  wife: 
the  answer  begins  to  dawn  on  me,  and  I  shall  not  rest  till  I 
have  made  it  mine. 

You  see  that  he  fancies  himself — vanity  of  men! — the 
chosen  of  my  heart,  just  as  though  there  were  no  legal 
bonds.  Nevertheless,  I  have  not  yet  got  beyond  that  ex- 
ternal attraction  which  gives  us  strength  to  put  up  with  a 
good  deal.  Yet  Louis  is  lovable;  his  temper  is  wonder- 
fully even,  and  he  performs,  as  a  matter  of  course,  acts  on 
which  most  men  would  plume  themselves.  In  short,  if  I 
do  not  love  him,  I  shall  find  no  difficulty  in  being  good 
to  him. 

So  here  are  my  black  hair  and  my  black  eyes — whose 
lashes  act,  according  to  you,  like  Venetian  blinds — my 
commanding  air,  and  my  whole  person,  raised  to  the  rank 
of  sovereign  power!  Ten  years  hence,  dear,  why  should 
we  not  both  be  laughing  and  gay  in  your  Paris,  whence  I 
shall  carry  you  off  now  and  again  to  my  beautiful  oasis  in 
Provence  ? 

Oh!  Louise,  don't  spoil  the  splendid  future  which  awaits 
us  both!  Don't  do  the  mad  things  with  which  you  threaten 
me.  My  husband  is  a  young  man,  prematurely  old;  why 
don't  you  marry  some  young-hearted  graybeard  in  the 
Chamber  of  Peers?  There  lies  your  vocation. 


MADRID. 

7i    /T  Y  DEAR  BROTHER— Yon  did  not  make  me  Due 

/y/     de  Soria  in  order  that  my  actions  should  belie  the 

name.     How  could  I  tolerate  my  happiness  if  I 

knew   you    to   be   a   wanderer,    deprived   of    the    comforts 

which  wealth  everywhere  commands  ?     Neither  Marie  nor 

I  will  consent  to  marry  till  we  hear  that  you  have  accepted 


490  BALZACTS    WORKS 

the  money  which  Urraca  will  hand  over  to  you.  These  two 
millions  are  the  fruit  of  your  own  savings  and  Marie's. 

We  have  both  prayed,  kneeling  before  the  same  altar — 
and  with  what  earnestness,  God  knows! — for  your  happi- 
ness. My  dear  brother,  it  cannot  be  that  these  prayers 
will  remain  unanswered.  Heaven  will  send  you  the  love 
which  you  seek,  to  be  the  consolation  of  your  exile.  Marie 
read  your  letter  with  tears,  and  is  full  of  admiration  for  you. 
As  for  me,  I  consent,  not  for  my  own  sake,  but  for  that  of 
the  family.  The  King  justified  your  expectations.  Oh! 
that  I  might  avenge  you  by  letting  him  see  himself, 
dwarfed  before  the  scorn  with  which  you  flung  him  his 
toy,  as  you  might  toss  a  tiger  its  food. 

The  only  thing  I  have  taken  for  myself,  dear  brother, 
is  my  happiness.  I  have  taken  Marie.  For  this  I  shall 
always  be  beholden  to  you,  as  the  creature  to  the  Creator. 
There  will  be  in  my  life  and  in  Marie's  one  day  not  less 
glorious  than  our  wedding  day — it  will  be  the  day  when 
we  hear  that  your  heart  has  found  its  mate,  that  a  woman 
loves  you  as  you  ought  to  be,  and  would  be,  loved.  Do 
not  forget  that  if  you  live  for  us,  we  also  live  for  you. 

You  can  write  to  us  with  perfect  confidence  under  cover 
to  the  Nuncio,  sending  your  letters  via  Rome.  The  French 
ambassador  at  Rome  will,  no  doubt,  undertake  to  forward 
them  to  Monsignor  Bemboni,  at  the  State  Secretary's  office, 
whom  our  legate  will  have  advised.  No  other  way  would 
be  safe.  Farewell,  dear  exile,  dear  despoiled  one.  Be 
proud  at  least  of  the  happiness  which  you  have  brought 
to  us,  if  you  cannot  be  happy  in  it.  God  will  doubtless 
hear  our  prayers,  which  are  full  of  your  name. 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  491 


XV 

LOUISE   DE   CHAULIEU    TO   MME.    DE   I/ESTORADE 

March. 

/jlH   MY  LOVE,  marriage  is  making  a  philosopher 
//      of  you!     Your  darling  face  must,  indeed,  have  been 
jaundiced  when  you  wrote  me  those  terrible  views 
of  human  life  and  the  duty  of  women.     Do  you  fancy  you 
will  convert  me  to  matrimony  by  your  programme  of  sub- 
terranean labors  ? 

Alas!  is  this  then  the  outcome  for  you  of  our  too-in- 
structed dreams!  We  left  Blois  all  innocent,  armed  with 
the  pointed  shafts  of  meditation,  and,  lo!  the  weapons  of 
that  purely  ideal  experience  have  turned  against  your  own 
breast!  If  I  did  not  know  you  for  the  purest  and  most  an- 
gelic of  created  beings,  I  declare  I  should  say  that  your  cal- 
culations smack  of  vice.  What,  my  dear,  in  the  interest  of 
your  country  home,  you  submit  your  pleasures  to  a  periodic 
thinning,  as  you  do  your  timber.  Oh !  rather  let  me  perish 
in  all  the  violence  of  the  heart's  storms  than  live  in  the  arid 
atmosphere  of  your  cautious  arithmetic! 

As  girls,  we  were  both  unusually  enlightened,  because  of 
the  large  amount  of  study  we  gave  to  our  chosen  subjects; 
but,  my  child,  philosophy  without  love,  or  disguised  under 
a  sham  love,  is  the  most  hideous  of  conjugal  hypocrisies. 
I  should  imagine  that  even  the  biggest  of  fools  might  de- 
tect now  and  again  the  owl  of  wisdom  squatting  in  your 
bower  of  roses — a  ghastly  phantom  sufficient  to  put  to  flight 
the  most  promising  of  passions.  You  make  your  own  fate, 
instead  of  waiting,  a  plaything  in  its  hands. 

We  are  each  developing  in  strange  ways.  A  large  dose 
of  philosophy  to  a  grain  of  love  is  your  recipe;  a  large 
dose  of  love  to  a  grain  of  philosophy  is  mine.  Why, 
Rousseau's  Julie,  whom  I  thought  so  learned,  is  a  mere 
beginner  to  you.  Woman's  virtue,  quotha!  How  you 


BALZAC'S    WORKS 

have  weighed  up  life!  Alas!  I  make  fun  of  you,  and, 
after  all,  perhaps  you  are  right. 

In  one  day  you  have  made  a  holocaust  of  your  youth 
and  become  a  miser  before  your  time.  Your  Louis  will 
be  happy,  I  daresay.  If  he  loves  you,  of  which  I  make 
no  doubt,  he  will  never  find  out  that,  for  the  sake  of 
your  family,  you  are  acting  as  a  courtesan  does  for  money ; 
and  certainly  men  seem  to  find  happiness  with  them,  judg- 
ing by  the  fortunes  they  squander  thus.  A  keen-sighted 
husband  might  no  doubt  remain  in  love  with  you,  but 
what  sort  of  gratitude  could  he  feel  in  the  long  run  for  a 
woman  who  had  made  of  duplicity  a  sort  of  moral  armor, 
as  indispensable  as  her  stays  ? 

Love,  dear,  is  in  my  eyes  the  first  principle  of  all  the 
virtues,  conformed  to  the  divine  likeness.  Like  all  other 
first  principles,  it  is  not  a  matter  of  arithmetic;  it  is  the 
Infinite  in  us.  I  cannot  but  think  you  have  been  trying 
to  justify  in  your  own  eyes  the  frightful  position  of  a  girl, 
married  to  a  man  for  whom  she  feels  nothing  more  than 
esteem.  You  prate  of  duty,  and  make  it  your  rule  and 
measure;  but  surely  to  take  necessity  as  the  spring  of  ac- 
tion is  the  moral  theory  of  atheism?  To  follow  the 
impulse  of  love  and  feeling  is  the  secret  law  of  every 
woman's  heart.  You  are  acting  a  man's  part,  and  your 
Louis  will  have  to  play  the  woman! 

Oh!  my  dear,  your  letter  has  plunged  me  into  an  endless 
train  of  thought.  I  see  now  that  the  convent  can  never  take 
the  place  of  mother  to  a  girl.  I  beg  of  you,  my  grand  angel 
with  the  black  eyes,  so  pure  and  proud,  so  serious  and  so 
pretty,  do  not  turn  away  from  these  cries,  which  the  first 
reading  of  your  letter  has  torn  from  me!  I  have  taken 
comfort  in  the  thought  that,  while  I  was  lamenting, 
love  was  doubtless  busy  knocking  down  the  scaffolding  of 
reason. 

It  may  be  that  I  shall  do  worse  than  you  without  any 
reasoning  or  calculations.  Passion  is  an  element  in  life 
bound  to  have  a  logic  not  less  pitiless  than  yours. 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  493 

Monday. 

YESTERDAY  night  I  placed  myself  at  the  window  as  I  was 
going  to  bed,  to  look  at  the  sky,  which  was  wonderfully 
clear.  The  stars  were  like  silver  nails,  holding  up  a  veil  of 
blue.  In  the  silence  of  the  night  I  could  hear  some  one 
breathing,  and  by  the  half-light  of  the  stars  I  saw  my  Span- 
iard, perched  like  a  squirrel  on  the  branches  of  one  of  the 
trees  lining  the  boulevard,  and  doubtless  lost  in  admiration 
of  my  windows. 

The  first  effect  of  this  discovery  was  to  make  me  with- 
draw into  the  room,  my  feet  and  hands  quite  limp  and  nerve- 
less; but,  beneath  the  fear,  1  was  conscious  of  a  delicious 
under-current  of  joy.  I  was  overpowered  but  happy.  Not 
one  of  those  clever  Frenchmen,  who  aspire  to  marry  me,  has 
had  the  brilliant  idea  of  spending  the  night  in  an  elm-tree 
at  the  risk  of  being  carried  off  by  the  watch.  My  Spaniard 
has,  no  doubt,  been  there  for  some  time.  Ah!  he  won't  give 
me  any  more  lessons,  he  wants  to  receive  them — well,  he 
shall  have  one.  If  only  he  knew  what  I  said  to  myself  about 
his  superficial  ugliness!  Others  can  philosophize  besides 
you,  Rene'e!  It  was  horrid,  I  argued,  to  fall  in  love  with 
a  handsome  man.  Is  it  not  practically  avowing  that  the 
senses  count  for  three  parts  out  of  four  in  a  passion  which 
ought  to  be  super-sensual? 

Having  got  over  my  first  alarm,  I  craned  my  neck  behind 
the  window  in  order  to  see  him  again — and  well  was  I  re- 
warded !  By  means  of  a  hollow  cane  he  blew  me  in  through 
the  window  a  letter,  cunningly  rolled  round  a  leaden  pellet. 

Good  Heavens !  will  he  suppose  I  left  the  window  open 
on  purpose? 

But  what  was  to  be  done?  To  shut  it  suddenly  would 
be  to  make  one's  self  an  accomplice. 

I  did  better.  I  returned  to  my  window  as  though  I  had 
seen  nothing  and  heard  nothing  of  the  letter,  then  I  said 
aloud:  "Come  and  look  at  the  stars,  Griffith." 

Griffith  was  sleeping  as  only  old  maids  can.  But  the  Moor, 
hearing  me,  slid  down,  and  vanished  with  ghostly  rapidity. 


494  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

He  must  have  been  dying  of  fright,  and  so  was  I,  for  I 
did  not  hear  him  go  away;  apparently  he  remained  at  the 
foot  of  the  elm.  After  a  good  quarter  of  an  hour,  during 
which  I  lost  myself  in  contemplation  of  the  heavens,  and 
battled  with  the  waves  of  curiosity,  I  closed  my  window  and 
sat  down  on  the  bed  to  unfold  the  delicate  bit  of  paper,  with 
the  tender  touch  of  a  worker  among  the  ancient  manuscripts 
at  Naples.  It  felt  red-hot  to  my  fingers.  "What  a  horrible 
power  this  man  has  over  me!"  I  said  to  myself. 

All  at  once  I  held  out  the  paper  to  the  candle — I  would 
burn  it  without  reading  a  word.  Then  a  thought  stayed  me, 
"What  can  he  have  to  say  that  he  writes  so  secretly?" 
Well,  dear,  I  did  burn  it,  reflecting  that,  though  any  other 
girl  in  the  world  would  have  devoured  the  letter,  it  was  not 
fitting  that  I — Armande -Louise-Marie  de  Chaulieu — should 
read  it. 

The  next  day,  at  the  Italian  opera,  he  was  at  his  post. 
But  I  feel  sure  that,  ex-prime  minister  of  a  constitutional 
government  though  he  is,  he  could  not  discover  the  slightest 
agitation  of  mind  in  any  movement  of  mine.  I  might  have 
seen  nothing  and  received  nothing  the  evening  before.  This 
was  most  satisfactory  to  me,  but  he  looked  very  sad.  Poor 
man!  in  Spain  it  is  so  natural  for  love  to  come  in  at  the 
window ! 

During  the  interval,  it  seems,  he  came  and  walked  in  the 
passages.  This  I  learned  from  the  chief  secretary  of  the  Span- 
ish embassy,  who  also  told  the  story  of  a  noble  action  of  his. 

As  Due  de  Soria  he  was  to  marry  one  of  the  richest  heir- 
esses in  Spain,  the  young  princess,  Marie  Here'dia,  whose 
wealth  would  have  mitigated  the  bitterness  of  exile.  But 
it  seems  that  Marie,  disappointing  the  wishes  of  the  fathers, 
who  had  betrothed  them  in  their  earliest  childhood,  loved 
the  younger  son  of  the  house  of  Soria,  to  whom  my  Felipe 
gave  her  up,  allowing  himself  to  be  despoiled  by  the  King 
of  Spain. 

"He  would  perform  this  piece  of  heroism  quite  simply," 
I  said  to  the  young  man. 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  495 

"You  know  him  then?"  was  his  ingenuous  reply. 

My  mother  smiled. 

"What  will  become  of  him,  for  he  is  condemned  to 
death?"  I  asked. 

"Though  dead  to  Spain,  he  can  live  in  Sardinia.' 

"Ah!  then  Spain  is  the  country  of  tombs  as  well  as  cas- 
tles ?  "  I  said,  trying  to  carry  it  oft  as  a  joke. 

"There  is  everything  in  Spain,  even  Spaniards  of  the  old 
school,"  my  mother  replied. 

"The  Baron  de  Macurner  obtained  a  passport,  not  without 
difficulty,  from  the  King  of  Sardinia,"  the  young  diplomatist 
went  on.  "He  has  now  become  a  Sardinian  subject,  and  he 
possesses  a  magnificent  estate  in  the  island  with  full  feudal 
rights.  He  has  a  palace  at  Sassari.  If  Ferdinand  VII.  were 
to  die,  Macumer  would  probably  go  in  for  diplomacy,  and 
the  Court  of  Turin  would  make  him  ambassador.  Though 
young,  he  is — " 

"Ah!  he  is  young?" 

"Certainly,  mademoiselle  .  .  .  though  young,  he  is  one 
of  the  most  distinguished  men  in  Spain. ' 

I  scanned  the  house  meanwhile  through  my  opera-glass, 
and  seemed  to  lend  an  inattentive  ear  to  the  secretary;  but, 
between  ourselves,  I  was  wretched  at  having  burned  his 
letter.  In  what  terms  would  a  man  like  that  express  his 
love?  For  he  does  love  me.  To  be  loved,  adored  in  secret; 
to  know  that  in  this  house,  where  all  the  great  men  of  Paris 
were  collected,  there  was  one  entirely  devoted  to  me,  un- 
known to  everybody!  Ah!  Renee,  now  I  understand  the 
life  of  Paris,  its  balls,  and  its  gayeties.  It  all  flashed  on  me 
in  the  true  light.  When  we  love,  we  must  have  society, 
were  it  only  to  sacrifice  it  to  our  love.  I  felt  a  different 
creature — and  such  a  happy  one!  My  vanity,  pride,  self-love 
— all  were  flattered.  Heaven  knows  what  glances  I  cast  upon 
the  audience ! 

"Little  rogue!"  the  Duchess  whispered  in  my  ear  with  a 
smile. . 

Yes,  Renee,  my  wily  mother  had  deciphered  the  hidden 


496  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

joy  in  my  bearing,  and  I  could  only  haul  down  my  flag  be- 
fore such  feminine  strategy.  Those  two  words  taught  me 
more  of  worldly  wisdom  than  I  have  been  able  to  pick  up  in 
a  year — for  we  are  in  March  now.  Alas!  no  more  Italian 
opera  in  another  month.  How  will  life  be  possible  without 
that  heavenly  music,  when  one's  heart  is  full  of  love? 

When  I  got  home,  my  dear,  with  determination  worthy 
of  a  Chaulieu,  I  opened  my  window  to  watch  a  shower  of 
rain.  Oh!  if  men  knew  the  magic  spell  that  a  heroic  action 
throws  over  us,  they  would  indeed  rise  to  greatness!  a  pol- 
troon would  turn  hero!  What  I  had  learned  about  my  Span- 
iard drove  rne  into  a  very  fever.  I  felt  certain  that  he  was 
there,  ready  to  aim  another  letter  at  me.  I  was  right,  and 
this  time  I  burned  nothing.  Here,  then,  is  the  first  love- 
letter  I  have  received,  madame  logician;  each  to  her  kind: 

"Louise,  it  is  not  for  your  peerless  beauty  I  love  you, 
nor  for  your  gifted  mind,  your  noble  feeling,  the  wondrous 
charm  of  all  you  say  and  do,  nor  yet  for  your  pride,  your 
queenly  scorn  of  baser  mortals — a  pride  blent  in  you  with 
charity,  for  what  angel  could  be  more  tender? — Louise,  I 
love  you  because,  for  the  sake  of  a  poor  exile,  you  have 
unbent  this  lofty  majesty,  because  by  a  gesture,  a  glance, 
you  have  brought  consolation  to  a  man  so  far  beneath  you 
that  the  utmost  he  could  hope  for  was  your  pity,  the  pity  of 
a  generous  heart.  You  are  the  one  woman  whose  eyes  have 
shone  with  a  tenderer  light  when  bent  on  me. 

"And  because  you  let  fall  this  glance — a  mere  grain 
of  dust,  yet  a  grace  surpassing  any  bestowed  on  me  when  I 
stood,  at  the  summit  of  a  subject's  ambition — I  long  to  tell 
you,  Louise,  how  dear  you  are  to  me,  and  that  my  love  is 
for  yourself  alone,  without  a  thought  beyond,  a  love  that 
far  more  than  fulfils  the  conditions  laid  down  by  you  for  an 
ideal  passion. 

"Know,  then,  idol  of  my  highest  heaven,  that  there  is  in 
the  world  an  offshoot  of  the  Saracen  race,  whose  -life  is 
in  your  hands,  who  will  receive  your  orders  as  a  slave,  and 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES 

deem  it  an  honor  to  execute  them.  I  have  given  myself 
to  you  absolutely  and  for  the  mere  joy  of  giving,  for  a  single 
glance  of  your  eye,  for  a  touch  of  the  hand  which  one  day 
you  offered  to  your  Spanish  master.  I  am  but  your  servitor, 
Louise;  I  claim  no  more. 

"No,  I  dare  not  think  that  I  could  ever  be  loved;  but 
perchance  my  devotion  may  win  for  me  toleration.  Since 
that  morning  when  you  smiled  upon  me  with  generous  girlish 
impulse,  divining  the  misery  of  my  lonely  and  rejected  heart, 
you  reign  there  alone.  You  are  the  absolute  ruler  of  my  life, 
the  queen  of  my  thoughts,  the  god  of  my  heart;  I  find  you 
in  the  sunshine  of  my  home,  the  fragrance  of  my  flowers,  the 
balm  of  the  air  I  breathe,  the  pulsing  of  my  blood,  the  light 
that  visits  me  in  sleep. 

"One  thought  alone  troubled  this  happiness — your  igno- 
rance. All  unknown  to  you  was  this  boundless  devotion, 
the  trusty  arm,  the  blind  slave,  the  silent  tool,  the  wealth — 
for  henceforth  all  I  possess  is  mine  only  as  a  trust — which 
lay  at  your  disposal ;  unknown  to  you,  the  heart  waiting  to 
receive  your  confidence,  and  yearning  to  replace  all  that  your 
life  (I  know  it  well)  has  lacked — the  liberal  ancestress,  so 
ready  to  meet  your  needs,  a  father  to  whom  you  could  look 
for  protection  in  every  difficulty,  a  friend,  a  brother.  The 
secret  of  your  isolation  is  no  secret  to  me!  If  I  am  bold,  it 
is  because  I  long  that  you  should  know  how  much  is  yours. 

"Take  all,  Louise,  and  in  so  doing  bestow  on  me  the  one 
life  possible  for  me  in  this  world — the  life  of  devotion.  In 
placing  the  yoke  on  my  neck,  you  run  no  risk;  I  ask  noth- 
ing but  the  joy  of  knowing  myself  yours.  Needless  even  to 
say  you  will  never  love  me;  it  cannot  be  otherwise.  I  must 
love  from  afar,  without  hope,  without  reward  beyond  my 
own  love. 

"In  my  anxiety  to  know  whether  you  will  accept  me  as 
your  servant,  I  have  racked  my  brain  to  find  some  way  in 
which  you  may  communicate  with  me  without  any  danger 
of  compromising  yourself.  Injury  to  your  self-respect  there 
can  be  none  in  sanctioning  a  devotion  which  has  been  yours 


498  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

for  many  days  without  your  knowledge.  Let  this,  then,  be 
the  token.  At  the  opera  this  evening,  if  you  carry  in  your 
hand  a  bouquet  consisting  of  one  red  and  one  white  camellia 

emblem  of  a  man's  blood  at  the  service  of  the  purity  he 

worships — that  will  be  my  answer.  I  ask  no  more;  thence- 
forth, at  any  moment,  ten  years  hence  or  to-morrow,  what- 
ever you  demand  shall  be  done,  so  far  as  it  is  possible  for 
man  to  do  it,  by  your  happy  servant, 

"FELIPE  HEXAREZ. 

P.S. — You  must  admit,  dear,  that  great  lords  know  how 
to  love !  See  the  spring  of  the  African  lion !  What  restrained 
fire!  What  loyalty!  What  sincerity!  How  high  a  soul  in 
low  estate !  I  felt  quite  small  and  dazed  as  I  said  to  myself, 
"What  shall  I  do?" 

It  is  the  mark  of  a  great  man  that  he  puts  to  flight  all 
ordinary  calculations.  He  is  at  once  sublime  and  touching, 
childlike  and  of  the  race  of  giants.  In  a  single  letter  He"narez 
has  outstripped  volumes  from  Lovelace  or  Saint- Preux.  Here 
is  true  love,  no  beating  about  the  bush.  Love  may  be  or  it 
may  not,  but  where  it  is,  it  ought  to  reveal  itself  in  its 
immensity. 

Here  am  I,  shorn  of  all  my  little  arts!  To  refuse  or 
accept!  That  is  the  alternative  boldly  presented  me,  with- 
out the  ghost  of  an  opening  for  a  middle  course.  No  fencing 
allowed!  This  is  no  longer  Paris;  we  are  in  the  heart  of 
Spain  or  the  far  East.  It  is  the  voice  of  Abencerrage,  and 
it  is  the  cimetar,  the  horse,  and  the  head  of  Abencerrage 
which  he  offers,  prostrate  before  a  Catholic  Eve!  Shall  I 
accept  this  last  descendant  of  the  Moors?  Read  again  and 
again  his  Hispano-Saracenic  letter,  Rene'e  dear,  and  you  will 
see  how  love  makes  a  clean  sweep  of  all  the  Judaic  bargains 
of  your  philosophy. 

Renee,  your  letter  lies  heavy  on  my  heart;  you  have  vul- 
garized life  for  me.  What*  need  have  I  for  finessing?  Am 
I  not  mistress  for  all  time  of  this  lion  whose  roar  dies  out  in 
plaintive  and  adoring  sighs  ?  Ah !  how  he  must  have  raged 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  499 

in  his  lair  of  the  Kue  Hillerin-Bertin !     I  know  where  he 
lives,  I  have  his  card:  F.,  Baron  de  Macumer. 

He  has  made  it  impossible  for  me  to  reply.  All  I  can 
do  is  to  fling  two  camellias  in  his  face.  What  fiendish  arts 
does  love  possess — pure,  honest,  simple-minded  love!  Here 
is  the  most  tremendous  crisis  of  a  woman's  heart  resolved 
into  an  easy,  simple  action.  Oh,  Asia!  I  have  read  the 
"Arabian  Nights,"  here  is  their  very  essence:  two  flowers, 
and  the  question  is  settled.  We  clear  the  fourteen  volumes 
of  "Clarissa  Harlowe"  with  a  bouquet.  I  writhe  before  this 
letter,  like  a  thread  in  the  fire.  To  take,  or  not  to  take,  my 
two  camellias.  Yes  or  No,  kill  or  give  life !  At  last  a  voice 
cries  to  me,  "Test  him!"  And  I  will  test  him. 


XVI 

THE    SAME    TO   THE    SAME 

March. 

/AM  DRESSED  in  white— white  camellias  in  my  hair, 
and  another  in  my  hand.     My  mother  has  red  camel- 
lias; so  it  would  not  be  impossible  to  take  one  from 
her — if  I  wished!     I  have  a  strange  longing  to  put  off  the 
decision  to  the  last  moment,  and  make  him  pay  for  his  red 
camellia  by  a  little  suspense. 

What  a  vision  of  beauty !  Griffith  begged  me  to  stop  for 
a  little  and  be  admired.  The  solemn  crisis  of  the  evening 
and  the  drama  of  my  secret  reply  have  given  me  a  color;  on 
each  cheek  I  sport  a  red  camellia  laid  upon  a  white! 

1    A.M. 

EVERYBODY  admired  me,  but  only  one  adored.  He  hung 
his  head  as  I  entered  with  a  white  camellia,  but  turned  pale 
as  the  flower  when,  later,  I  took  a  red  one  from  my  mother's 
hand.  To  arrive  with  the  two  flowers  might  possibly  have 
been  accidental;  but  this  deliberate  action  was  a  reply.  My 
confession,  therefore,  is  fuller  than  it  need  have  been. 


500  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

The  Opera  was  "Borneo  and  Juliet. "  As  you  don't  know 
the  duet  of  the  two  lovers,  you  can't  understand  the  bliss  of 
two  neophytes  in  love,  as  they  listen  to  this  divine  outpour- 
ing of  the  heart. 

On  returning  home  I  went  to  bed,  but  only  to  count  the 
steps  which  resounded  on  the  sidewalk.  My  heart  and  head, 
darling,  are  all  on  fire  now.  What  is  he  doing?  What  is 
he  thinking  of  ?  Has  he  a  thought,  a  single  thought,  that 
is  not  of  me  ?  Is  he,  in  very  truth,  the  devoted  slave  he 
painted  himself?  How  to  be  sure?  Or,  again,  has  it  ever 
entered  his  head  that,  if  I  accept  him,  I  lay  myself  open  to 
the  shadow  of  a  reproach  or  am  in  any  sense  rewarding  or 
thanking  him  ?  I  am  harrowed  by  the  hair-splitting  casuis- 
try of  the  heroines  in  "Cyrus"  and  "Astraea, "  by  all  the 
subtle  arguments  of  the  court  of  love. 

Has  lie  any  idea  that,  in  affairs  of  love,  a  woman's  most 
trifling  actions  are  but  the  issue  of  long  brooding  and  inner 
conflicts,  of  victories  won  only  to  be  lost!  What  are  his 
thoughts  at  this  moment  ?  How  can  I  give  him  my  orders 
to  write  every  evening  the  particulars  of  the  day  just  gone? 
He  is  my  slave  whom  I  ought  to  keep  busy.  I  shall  deluge 
him  with  work ! 

Sunday  Morning. 

ONLY  toward  morning  did  1  sleep  a  little.  It  is  midday 
now.  I  have  just  got  Griffith  to  write  the  following  letter: 

"To  the  Baron  de  Macumer 

"Mademoiselle  de  Chaulieu  begs  me,  Monsieur  le  Baron, 
to  ask  you  to  return  to  her  the  copy  of  a  letter  written  to  her 
by  a  friend,  which  is  in  her  own  handwriting,  and  which  you 
carried  away. — Believe  me,  etc.,  GRIFFITH." 

My  dear,  Griffith  has  gone  out ;  she  has  gone  to  the  Rue 
Hillerin-Bertin ;  she  has  handed  in  this  little  love-letter  for 
my  slave,  who  returned  to  me  in  an  envelope  my  ideal  por- 
trait, stained  with  tears.  He  has  obeyed.  Oh !  my  sweet, 
it  must  have  been  dear  to  him !  Another  man  would  have 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  501 

refused  to  send  it  in  a  letter  full  of  flattery ;  but  the  Saracen 
has  fulfilled  his  promises.  He  has  obeyed.  It  moves  me 
to  tears. 

XVII 

THE   SAME   TO   THE   SAME 

April  2d. 

rESTERDA  Y  the  weather  was  splendid.  I  dressed 
myself  like  a  girl  who  wants  to  look  her  best  in 
her  sweetheart's  eyes.  My  father,  yielding  to  my 
entreaties,  has  given  me  the  prettiest  turnout  in  Paris — two 
dapple-gray  horses  and  a  barouche  which  is  a  masterpiece 
of  elegance.  I  was  making  a  first  trial  of  this,  and  peeped 
out  like  a  flower  from  under  my  sunshade  lined  with  white 
silk. 

As  I  drove  up  the  avenue  of  the  Champs-Elysees,  I  saw 
my  Abencerrage  approaching  on  an  extraordinarily  beauti- 
ful horse.  Almost  every  man  nowadays  is  a  finished  jockey, 
and  they  all  stopped  to  admire  and  inspect  it.  He  bowed  to 
me,  and  on  receiving  a  friendly  sign  of  encouragement,  slack- 
ened his  horse's  pace  so  that  I  was  able  to  say  to  him:  "You 
are  not  vexed  with  me  for  asking  for  iny  letter;  it  was  no  use 
to  you."  Then  in  a  lower  voice,  "You  have  already  tran- 
scended the  ideal.  .  .  .  Your  horse  makes  you  an  object  of 
general  interest,"  I  went  on  aloud. 

"My  steward  in  Sardinia  sent  it  to  me.  He  is  very  proud 
of  it;  for  this  horse,  which  is  of  Arab  bJood,  was  born  in  my 
stables. ' ' 

This  morning,  my  dear,  Henarez  was  on  an  English  sorrel, 
also  very  fine,  but  not  such  as  to  attract  attention.  My  light, 
mocking  words  had  done  their  work.  He  bowed  to  me  and 
I  replied  with  a  slight  inclination  of  the  head. 

The  Due  d'  Angoule'me  has  bought  Macumer's  horse.  My 
slave  understood  that  he  was  deserting  the  role  of  simplicity 
by  attracting  the  notice  of  the  crowd.  A  man  ought  to  be 
remarked  for  what  he  is,  not  for  his  horse,  or  anything  else 
belonging  to  him.  To  have  too  beautiful  a  horse  seems  to 


502  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

me  a  piece  of  bad  taste,  just  as  much  as  wearing  a  huge  dia- 
mond pin.  I  was  delighted  at  being  able  to  find  fault  with 
him.  Perhaps  there  may  have  been  a  touch  of  vanity  in 
what  he  did,  very  excusable  in  a  poor  exile,  and  I  like  to 
see  this  childishness. 

Oh!  my  dear  old  preacher,  do  my  love  affairs  amuse  you 
as  much  as  your  dismal  philosophy  gives  me  the  creeps  ? 
Dear  Philip  the  Second  in  petticoats,  are  you  comfortable 
in  my  barouche  ?  Do  you  see  those  velvet  eyes,  humble, 
yet  so  eloquent,  and  glorying  in  their  servitude,  which  flash 
on  me  as  some  one  goes  by  ?  He  is  a  hero,  Renee,  and  he 
wears  my  livery,  and  always  a  red  camellia  in  his  button- 
hole, while  I  have  always  a  white  one  in  my  hand. 

How  clear  everything  becomes  in  the  light  of  love!  How 
well  I  know  my  Paris  now!  It  is  all  transfused  with  mean- 
ing. And  love  here  is  lovelier,  grander,  more  bewitching 
than  elsewhere. 

I  am  convinced  now  that  I  could  never  flirt  with  a  fool 
or  make  any  impression  on  him.  It  is  only  men  of  real  dis- 
tinction who  can  enter  into  our  feelings  and  feel  our  influ- 
ence. Oh!  my  poor  friend,  forgive  me.  I  forgot  our  1'Es- 
torade.  But  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  going  to  make  a 
genius  of  him  ?  1  know  what  that  means.  You  will  dry 
nurse  him  till  some  day  he  is  able  to  understand  you. 

Good-by.     I  am  a  little  off  my  head,  and  must  stop. 


XVIII 
MME.  DE  L'ESTORADE  TO  LOUISE  DE  CHAULIEU 

April. 

ANGEL — or  ought  I  not  rather  to  say  my  imp 
°f  evil? — you  have,  without  meaning  it,  grieved 
me  sorely.     I   would  say  wounded  were  we   not 
one  soul.     And  yet  it  is  possible  to  wound  one's  self. 

How  plain  it  is  that  you  have  never  realized  the  force 
of  the  word  indissoluble  as  applied  to  the  contract  binding 
man  and  woman!  I  have  no  wish  to  controvert  what  has 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  503 

been  laid  down  by  philosophers  or  legislators — they  are 
quite  capable  of  doing  this  for  themselves — but,  dear  one, 
in  making  marriage  irrevocable  and  imposing  on  it  a  relent- 
less formula,  which  admits  of  no  exceptions,  they  have  ren- 
dered each  union  a  thing  as  distinct  as  one  individual  is 
from  another.  Each  has  its  own  inner  laws  which  differ 
from  those  of  others.  The  laws  regulating  married  life  in 
the  country,  for  instance,  where  husband  and  wife  are  never 
out  of  each  other's  sight,  cannot  be  the  same  as  those  regu- 
lating a  household  in  town,  where  frequent  distractions  give 
variety  to  life.  Or  conversely,  married  life  in  Paris,  where 
existence  is  one  perpetual  whirl,  must  demand  different  treat- 
ment from  the  more  peaceful  home  in  the  provinces. 

But  if  place  alters  the  conditions  of  marriage,  much  more 
does  character.  The  wife  of  a  man  born  to  be  a  leader  need 
only  resign  herself  to  his  guidance;  whereas  the  wife  of  a 
fool,  conscious  of  superior  power,  is  bound  to  take  the  reins 
in  her  own  hand  if  she  would  avert  calamity. 

You  speak  of  vice;  and  it  is  possible  that,  after  all,  rea- 
son and  reflection  produce  a  result  not  dissimilar  from  what 
we  call  by  that  name.  For  what  does  a  woman  mean  by  it 
but  perversion  of  feeling  through  calculation  ?  Passion  is 
vicious  when  it  reasons,  admirable  only  when  it  springs  from 
the  heart  and  spends  itself  in  sublime  impulses  that  set  at 
naught  all  selfish  considerations.  Sooner  or  later,  dear  one, 
you  too  will  say,  "Yes!  dissimulation  is  the  necessary  armor 
of  a  woman,  if  by  dissimulation  be  meant  courage  to  bear  in 
silence,  prudence  to  foresee  the  future." 

Every  married  woman  learns  to  her  cost  the  existence  of 
certain  social  laws,  which,  in  many  respects,  conflict  with 
the  laws  of  nature.  Marrying  at  our  age,  it  would  be  possi- 
ble to  have  a  dozen  children.  What  is  this  but  another  name 
for  a  dozen  crimes,  a  dozen  misfortunes  ?  It  would  be  hand- 
ing over  to  poverty  and  despair  twelve  innocent  darlings; 
whereas  two  children  would  mean  the  happiness  of  both,  a 
double  blessing,  two  lives  capable  of  developing  in  harmony 
with  the  customs  and  laws  of  our  time.  The  natural  law  and 


604  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

the  code  are  in  hostility,  and  we  are  the  battleground.  Would 
you  give  the  name  of  vice  to  the  prudence  of  the  wife  who 
guards  her  family  from  destruction  through  its  own  acts? 
One  calculation  or  a  thousand,  what  matter,  if  the  decision 
no  longer  rests  with  the  heart  ? 

And  of  this  terrible  calculation  you  will  be  guilty  some 
day,  my  noble  Baronne  de  Macumer,  when  you  are  the  proud 
and  happy  wife  of  the  man  who  adores  you;  or  rather,  being 
a  man  of  sense,  he  will  spare  you  by  making  it  himself.  (You 
see,  dear  dreamer,  that  I  have  studied  the  code  in  its  bear- 
ings on  conjugal  relations.)  And  when  at  last  that  day 
comes,  you  will  understand  that  we  are  answerable  only  to 
God  and  to  ourselves  for  the  means  we  employ  to  keep  hap- 
piness alight  in  the  heart  of  our  homes.  Far  better  is  the 
calculation  which  succeeds  in  this  than  the  reckless  passion 
which  introduces  trouble,  heart-burnings,  and  dissension. 

I  have  reflected  painfully  on  the  duties  of  a  wife  and 
mother  of  a  family.  Yes,  sweet  one,  it  is  only  by  a  sublime 
hypocrisy  that  we  can  attain  the  noblest  ideal  of  a  perfect 
woman.  You  tax  me  with  insincerity  because  I  dole  out  to 
Louis,  from  day  to  day,  the  measure  of  his  intimacy  with 
me;  but  is  it  not  too  close  an  intimacy  which  provokes  rup- 
ture ?  My  aim  is  to  give  him,  in  the  very  interest  of  his  hap- 
piness, many  occupations,  which  will  all  serve  as  distractions 
to  his  love;  and  this  is  not  the  reasoning  of  passion.  If 
affection  be  inexhaustible,  it  is  not  so  with  love:  the  task, 
therefore,  of  a  woman — truly  no  light  one — is  to  spread  it 
out  thriftily  over  a  lifetime. 

At  the  risk  of  exciting  your  disgust,  I  must  tell  you  that 
I  persist  in  the  principles  I  have  adopted,  and  hold  myself 
both  heroic  and  generous  in  so  doing.  Virtue,  my  pet,  is 
an  abstract  idea,  varying  in  its  manifestations  with  the  sur- 
roundings. Virtue  in  Provence,  in  Constantinople,  in  Lon- 
don, and  in  Paris  bears  very  different  fruit,  but  is  none  the 
less  virtue.  Each  human  life  is  a  substance  compacted  of 
widely  dissimilar  elements,  though,  viewed  from  a  certain 
height,  the  general  effect  is  the  same. 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  505 

If  I  wished  to  make  Louis  unhappy  and  to  bring  about 
a  separation,  all  I  need  do  is  to  leave  the  helm  in  his  hands. 
I  have  not  had  your  good  fortune  in  meeting  with  a  man  of 
the  highest  distinction,  but  I  may  perhaps  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  helping  him  on  the  road  to  it.  Five  years  hence  let 
us  meet  in  Paris  and  see!  I  believe  we  shall  succeed  in  mys- 
tifying you.  You  will  tell  me  then  that  I  was  quite  mistaken, 
and  that  M.  de  TBstorade  is  a  man  of  great  natural  gifts. 

As  for  this  brave  love,  of  which  I  know  only  what  you 
tell  me,  these  tremors  and  night  watches  by  starlight  on  the 
balcony,  this  idolatrous  worship,  this  deification  of  woman 
— I  knew  it  was  not  for  me.  You  can  enlarge  the  borders 
of  your  brilliant  life  as  you  please;  mine  is  hemmed  in  to 
the  boundaries  of  La  Crampade. 

And  you  reproach  me  for  the  jealous  care  which  alone 
can  nurse  this  modest  and  fragile  shoot  into  a  wealth  of 
lasting  and  mysterious  happiness!  I  believed  myself  to 
have  found  out  how  to  adapt  the  charm  of  a  mistress 
to  the  position  of  a  wife,  and  you  ha\*e  almost  made  me 
blush  for  my  device.  Who  shall  say  which  of  us  is  right, 
which  wrong  ?  Perhaps  we  are  both  right  and  both  wrong. 
Perhaps  this  is  the  heavy  price  which  society  exacts  for  our 
furbelows,  our  titles,  and  our  children. 

I  too  have  my  red  camellias,  but  they  bloom  on  my  lips 
in  smiles  for  my  double  charge — the  father  and  the  son — 
whose  slave  and  mistress  I  am.  But,  my  dear,  your  last 
letters  made  me  feel  what  I  have  lostl  You  have  taught 
me  all  a  woman  sacrifices  in  marrying.  One  single  glance 
did  I  take  at  those  beautiful  wild  plateaus  where  you  range 
at  your  sweet  will,  and  I  will  not  tell  you  the  tears  that  fell 
as  I  read.  But  regret  is  not  remorse,  though  it  may  be  first 
cousin  to  it. 

You  say,  "Marriage  has  made  you  a  philosopher!" 
Alas!  bitterly  did  I  feel  how  far  this  was 'from  the  truth, 
as  I  wept  to  think  of  you  swept  away  on  love's  torrent. 
But  my  father  has  made  me  read  one  of  the  profoundest 
thinkers  of  these  parts,  the  man  on  whom  the  mantle  of 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC— 22 


506  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Bossuet  lias  fallen,  one  of  those  hard-headed  theorists 
whose  words  force  conviction.  While  you  were  reading 
"Corinne,"  I  conned  Bonald;  and  here  is  the  whole  secret 
of  my  philosophy.  He  revealed  to  me  the  Family  in  its 
strength  and  holiness.  According  to  Bonald,  your  father 
was  right  in  his  homily. 

Farewell,  my  dear  fancy,  my  friend,  my  wild  other  self. 


XIX 

LOUISE   DE   CHATJLIEU    TO    MME.    DE    I/ESTORADE 

ELL,  MY  REN&E,  you  are  a  love  of  a  woman, 
and  I  quite  agree  now  that  we  can  only  be  vir- 
tuous by  cheating.  Will  that  satisfy  you  ? 
Moreover,  the  man  who  loves  us  is  our  property;  we  can 
make  a  fool  or  a  genius  of  him  as  we  please;  only,  between 
ourselves,  the  former  happens  more  commonly.  You  will 
make  yours  a  genius,  and  you  won't  tell  the  secret — there 
are  two  heroic  actions,  if  you  will! 

Ah!  if  there  were  no  future  life,  how  nicely  you  would 
be  sold,  for  this  is  martyrdom  into  which  you  are  plunging 
of  your  own  accord.  You  want  to  make  him  ambitious 
and  to  keep  him  in  love!  Child  that  you  are,  surely  the 
last  alone  is  sufficient. 

Tell  me,  to  what  point  is  calculation  a  virtue,  or  virtue 
calculation?  You  won't  say?  Well,  we  won't  quarrel 
over  that,  since  we  have  Bonald  to  refer  to.  We  are,  and 
intend  to  remain,  virtuous;  nevertheless  at  this  moment  I 
believe  that  you,  with  all  your  pretty  little  knavery,  are  a 
better  woman  than  I  am. 

Yes,  I  am  shockingly  deceitful.  I  love  Felipe,  and  I 
conceal  it  from  him  with  an  odious  hypocrisy.  I  long  to 
see  him  leap  from  his  tree  to  the  top  of  the  wall,  and  from 
the  wall  to  my  balcony — and  if  he  did,  how  I  should  wither 
him  with  my  scorn !  You  see,  I  am  frank  enough  with  you. 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  507 

What  restrains  rne  ?  Where  is  the  mysterious  power 
which  prevents  me  from  telling  Felipe,  dear  fellow,  how 
supremely  happy  he  has  made  me  by  the  outpouring  of  his 
love — so  pure,  so  absolute,  so  boundless,  so  unobtrusive, 
and  so  overflowing? 

Mme.  de  Mirbel  is  painting  my  portrait,  and  I  intend  to 
give  it  to  him,  my  dear.  What  surprises  me  more  and  more 
every  day  is  the  animation  which  love  puts  into  life.  How 
full  of  interest  is  every  hour,  every  action,  every  trifle! 
and  what  amazing  confusion  between  the  past,  the  future, 
and  the  present!  One  lives  in  three  tenses  at  once.  Is  it 
still  so  after  the  heights  of  happiness  are  reached?  Oh! 
tell  me,  I  implore  you,  what  is  happiness  ?  Does  it  soothe, 
or  does  it  excite  ?  I  am  horribly  restless ;  I  seem  to  have 
lost  all  my  bearings;  a  force  in  my  heart  drags  me  to  him, 
spite  of  reason  and  spite  of  propriety.  There  is  this  gain, 
that  I  am  better  able  to  enter  into  your  feelings. 

Felipe's  happiness  consists  in  feeling  himself  mine;  the 
aloofness  of  his  love,  his  strict  obedience,  irritate  me,  just 
as  his  attitude  of  profound  respect  provoked  me  when  he 
was  only  my  Spanish  master.  I  am  tempted  to  cry  out  to 
him  as  he  passes,  "Fool,  if  you  love  me  so  much  as  a  pic- 
ture, what  will  it  be  when  you  know  the  real  me?" 

Oh!  Ren^e,  you  burn  my  letters,  don't  you?  I  will 
burn  yours.  If  other  eyes  than  ours  were  to  read  these 
thoughts  which  pass  from  heart  to  heart,  I  should  send 
Felipe  to  put  them  out,  and  perhaps  to  kill  the  owners, 
by  way  of  additional  security. 

Monday. 

OH!  Rene*e,  how  is  it  possible  to  fathom  the  heart  of 
man  ?  My  father  ought  to  introduce  me  to  M.  Bonald, 
since  he  is  so  learned;  I  would  ask  him.  I  envy  the 
privilege  of  God,  who  can  read  the  under-currents  of  the 
heart. 

Does  he  still  worship  ?     That  is  the  whole  question. 

If  ever,  in  gesture,  glance,  or  tone,  I  were  to  detect  the 
slightest  falling  off  in  the  respect  he  used  to  show  me  in 


508  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

the  days  when  he  was  my  instructor  in  Spanish,  I  feel  that 
I  should  have  strength  to  put  the  whole  thing  from  me. 
"Why  these  fine  words,  these  grand  resolutions  ?"  you 
will  say.  Dear,  I  will  tell  you. 

My  fascinating  father,  who  treats  me  with  the  devotion 
of  an  Italian  cavaliere  servente  for  his  lady,  had  my  portrait 
painted,  as  I  told  you,  by  Mme.  de  Mirbel.  I  contrived  to 
get  a  copy  made,  good  enough  to  do  for  the  Duke,  and  sent 
the  original  to  Felipe.  I  despatched  it  yesterday,  and  these 
lines  with  it: 

"Don  Fe'lipe,  your  single-hearted  devotion  is  met  by  a 
blind  confidence.  Time  will  show  whether  this  is  not  to 
treat  a  man  as  more  than  human." 

It  was  a  big  reward.  It  looked  like  a  promise  and — 
dreadful  to  say — a  challenge;  but — which  will  seem  to  you 
still  more  dreadful — I  quite  intended  that  it  should  suggest 
both  these  things,  without  going  so  far  as  actually  to  com- 
mit me.  If  in  his  reply  there  is  "Dear  Louise!"  or  even 
"Louise,"  he  is  done  for! 

Tuesday. 

No,  HE  is  not  done  for.  The  constitutional  minister  is 
perfect  as  a  lover.  Here  is  his  letter: 

"Every  moment  passed  away  from  your  sight  has  been 
filled  by  me  with  ideal  pictures  of  you,  my  eyes  closed  to 
the  outside  world  and  fixed  in  meditation  on  your  image, 
which  used  to  obey  the  summons  too  slowly  in  that  dim 
palace  of  dreams,  glorified  by  your  presence.  Henceforth 
my  gaze  will  rest  upon  this  wondrous  ivory — this  talisman, 
might  I  not  say? — since  your  blue  eyes  sparkle  with  life  as 
I  look,  and  paint  passes  into  flesh  and  blood.  If  I  have 
delayed  writing,  it  is  because  I  could  not  tear  myself  avray 
from  your  presence,  which  wrung  from  me  all  that  I  was 
bound  to  keep  most  secret. 

"Yes,  closeted  with  you  all  last  night  and  to-day,  I 
have,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  given  myself  up  to  full, 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  509 

complete,  and  boundless  happiness.  Could  you  but  see 
yourself  where  I  have  placed  you,  between  the  Virgin  and 
God,  you  might  have  some  idea  of  the  agony  in  which  the 
night  has  passed.  But  I  would  not  offend  you  by  speak- 
ing of  it;  for  one  glance  from  your  eyes,  robbed  of  the 
tender  sweetness  which  is  my  life,  would  be  full  of  torture 
for  me,  and  I  implore  your  clemency  therefore  in  advance. 
Queen  of  my  life  and  of  my  soul,  oh !  that  you  could  grant 
me  but  one-thousandth  part  of  the  love  I  bear  you! 

"This  was  the  burden  of  my  prayer;  doubt  worked  havoc 
in  my  soul  as  I  oscillated  between  belief  and  despair,  between 
life  and  death,  darkness  and  light.  A  criminal  whose  verdict 
hangs  in  the  balance  is  not  more  racked  with  suspense  than  I, 
as  I  own  to  my  temerity.  The  smile  imaged  on  your  lips,  to 
which  my  eyes  turned  ever  and  again,  was  alone  able  to  calm 
the  storm  roused  by  the  dread  of  displeasing  you.  From  my 
birth  no  one,  not  even  my  mother,  has  smiled  on  me.  The 
beautiful  young  girl  who  was  designed  for  me  rejected  my 
heart  and  gave  hers  to  my  brother.  Again,  in  politics  all 
my  efforts  have  been  defeated.  In  the  eyes  of  my  king  I 
have  read  only  thirst  for  vengeance;  from -childhood  he  has 
been  my  enemy,  and  the  vote  of  the  Cortes  which  placed  me 
in  power  was  regarded  by  him  as  a  personal  insult. 

"Less  than  this  might  breed  despondency  in  the  stout- 
est heart.  Besides,  I  have  no  illusion;  I  know  the  grace- 
lessness  of  my  person,  and  am  well  aware  how  difficult  it 
is  to  do  justice  to  the  heart  within  so  rugged  a  shell.  To 
be  loved  had  ceased  to  be  more  than  a  dream  to  me  when 
I  met  you.  Thus  when  I  bound  myself  to  your  service  I 
knew  that  devotion  alone  could  excuse  my  passion. 

"But,  as  I  look  upon  this  portrait  and  listen  to  your 
smile  that  whispers  of  rapture,  the  rays  of  a  hope  which  I 
had  sternly  banished  pierce  the  gloom,  like  the  light  of 
dawn,  again  to  be  obscured  by  rising  mists  of  doubt  and 
fear  of  your  displeasure,  if  the  morning  should  break  to- 
day. No,  it  is  impossible  you  should  love  me  yet — I  feel 
itj  but  in  time,  as  you  make  proof  of  the  strength,  the 


510  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

constancy,  and  depth  of  my  affection,  you  may  yield  me 
some  foothold  in  your  heart.  If  my  daring  offends  you, 
tell  me  so  without  anger,  and  I  will  return  to  my  former 
part.  But  if  you  consent  to  try  and  love  me,  be  merciful 
and  break  it  gently  to  one  who  has  placed  the  happiness 
of  his  life  in  the  single  thought  of  serving  you." 

My  dear,  as  I  read  these  last  words,  he  seemed  to  rise 
before  me,  pale  as  the  night  when  the  camellias  told  their 
story  and  he  knew  his  offering  was  accepted.  These  words, 
in  their  humility,  were  clearly  something  quite  different 
from  the  usual  flowery  rhetoric  of  lovers,  and  a  wave  of 
feeling  broke  over  me;  it  was  the  breath  of  happiness. 

The  weather  has  been  atrocious;  impossible  to  go  to 
the  Bois  without  exciting  all  sorts  of  suspicions.  Even 
my  mother,  who  often  goes  out,  regardless  of  ram,  re- 
mains at  home,  and  alone. 

Wednesday  evening. 

I  HAVE  just  seen  him  at  the  Opera,  my  dear;  he  is 
another  man.  He  came  to  our  box,  introduced  by  the 
Sardinian  ambassador. 

Having  read  in  my  eyes  that  this  audacity  was  taken 
in  good  part,  he  seemed  awkwardly  conscious  of  his  limbs, 
and  addressed  the  Marquise  d'Espard  as  "Mademoiselle." 
A  light  far  brighter  than  the  glare  of  the  chandeliers 
flashed  from  his  eyes.  At  last  he  went  out  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  didn't  know  what  he  might  do  next. 

"The  Baron  de  Macumer  is  in  love!"  exclaimed  Mme. 
de  Maufrigneuse. 

"Strange,  isn't  it,  for  a  fallen  minister  ?"  replied  my 
mother,, 

I  had  sufficient  presence  of  mind  myself  to  regard  with 
curiosity  Mmes.  de  Maufrigneuse  and  d'Espard  and  my 
mother,  as  though  they  were  talking  a  foreign  language  and 
I  wanted  to  know  what  it  was  all  about,  but  inwardly  my 
soul  sank  in  the  waves  of  an  intoxicating  joy.  There  is  only 
one  word  to  express  what  I  felt,  and  that  is:  rapture.  Such 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  511 

love  as  Felipe's  surely  makes  him  worthy  of  mine.  I  am  the 
very  breath  of  his  life,  my  hands  hold  the  thread  that  guides 
his  thoughts.  To  be  quite  frank,  I  have  a  mad  longing  to 
see  him  clear  every  obstacle  and  stand  before  me,  asking 
boldly  for  my  hand.  Then  I  should  know  whether  this  storm 
of  love  would  sink  to  placid  cairn  at  a  glance  from  me. 

Ah !  my  dear,  I  stopped  here,  and  I  am  still  all  in  a  trem- 
ble. As  1  wrote,  I  heard  a  slight  noise  outside,  and  rose  to 
see  what  it  was.  From  my  window  I  could  see  him  coming 
along  the  ridge  of  the  wall  at  the  risk  of  his  life.  I  went  to 
the  bedroom  window  and  made  him  a  sign,  it  was  enough; 
he  leaped  from  the  wall — ten  feet — and  then  ran  along  the 
road,  as  far  as  I  could  see  him,  in  order  to  show  me  that 
he  was  not  hurt.  That  he  should  think  of  my  fear  at  the 
moment  when  he  must  have  been  stunned  by  his  fall,  moved 
me  so  much  that  I  am  still  crying;  I  don't  know  why.  Poor 
ungainly  man !  what  was  he  coming  for  ?  what  had  he  to  say 
to  me  ? 

I  dare  not  write  my  thoughts,  and  shall  go  to  bed  joyful, 
thinking  of  all  that  we  would  say  if  we  were  together.  Fare- 
well, fair  silent  one.  I  have  not  time  to  scold  you  for  not 
writing,  but  it  is  more  than  a  month  since  I  have  heard  from 
you!  Does  this  mean  that  you  are  at  last  happy?  Have 
you  lost  the  "complete  independence"  which  you  were  so 
proud  of,  and  which  to-night  has  so  nearly  played  me  false? 


XX 

RENEE   DE   I/ESTORADE   TO   LOUISE   DE   CHAULIEU 

May. 

/F LOVE  BE  the  life  of  the  world,  why  do  austere  phi- 
losophers count  it  for  nothing  in  marriage?     Why 
should  Society  take  for  its  first  law  that  the  woman 
must  be  sacrificed  to  the  family,  introducing  thus  a  note  of 
discord  into  the  very  heart  of  marriage?     And  this  discord 
was  foreseen,  since  it  was  to  meet  the  dangers  arising  from 


512  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

it  that  men  were  armed  with  new-found  powers  against  us. 
But  for  these,  we  should  have  been  able  to  bring  their  whole 
theory  to  nothing,  whether  by  the  force  of  love  or  of  a  secret, 
persistent  aversion. 

I  see  in  marriage,  as  it  at  present  exists,  two  opposing 
forces  which  it  was  the  task  of  the  lawgiver  to  reconcile. 
"When  will  they  be  reconciled?"  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  read 
your  letter.  Oh!  my  dear,  one  such  letter  alone  is  enough 
to  overthrow  the  whole  fabric  constructed  by  the  sage  of 
Aveyron,  under  whose  shelter  I  had  so  cheerfully  ensconced 
myself!  The  laws  were  made  by  old  men — any  woman  can 
see  that — and  they  have  been  prudent  enough  to  decree  that 
conjugal  love,  apart  from  passion,  is  not  degrading,  and  that 
a  woman  in  yielding  herself  may  dispense  with  the  sanction 
of  love,  provided  the  man  can  legally  call  her  his.  In  their 
exclusive  concern  for  the  family  they  have  imitated  Nature, 
whose  one  care  is  to  propagate  the  species. 

Formerly  I  was  a  person,  now  I  am  a  chattel.  Not  a  few 
tears  have  I  gulped  down,  alone  and  far  from  every  one. 
How  gladly  would  I  have  exchanged  them  for  a  consoling 
smile!  Why  are  our  destinies  so  unequal?  Your  soul  ex- 
pands in  the  atmosphere  of  a  lawful  passion.  For  you,  virtue 
will  coincide  with  pleasure.  If  you  encounter  pain,  it  will 
be  of  your  own  free  choice.  Your  duty,  if  you  marry  Felipe, 
will  be  one  with  the  sweetest,  freest  indulgence  of  feeling. 
Our  future  is  big  with  the  answer  to  my  question,  and  I  look 
for  it  with  restless  eagerness. 

You  love  and  are  adored.  Oh!  my  dear,  let  this  noble 
romance,  the  old  subject  of  our  dreams,  take  full  possession 
of  your  soul.  Womanly  beauty,  refined  and  spiritualized  in 
you,  was  created  by  God,  for  His  own  purposes,  to  charm 
and  to  delight.  Yes,  my  sweet,  guard  well  the  secret  of 
your  heart,  and  submit  Felipe  to  those  ingenious  devices 
of  ours  for  testing  a  lover's  mettle.  Above  all,  make  trial  of 
your  own  love,  for  this  is  even  more  important.  It  is  so  easy 
to  be  misled  by  the  deceptive  glamour  of  novelty  and  passion, 
and  by  the  vision  of  happiness. 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  513 

Alone  of  the  two  friends,  you  remain  in  your  maiden 
independence;  and  I  beseech  you,  dearest,  do  not  risk  the 
irrevocable  step  of  marriage  without  some  guarantee.  It  hap- 
pens sometimes,  when  two  are  talking  together,  apart  from 
the  world,  their  souls  stripped  of  social  disguise,  that  a  ges- 
ture, a  word,  a  look  lights  up,  as  by  a  flash,  some  dark  abyss. 
You  have  courage  and  strength  to  tread  boldly  in  paths  where 
others  would  be  lost. 

You  have  no  conception  in  what  anxiety  I  watch  you. 
Across  all  this  space  I  see  you;  my  heart  beats  with  yours. 
Be  sure,  therefore,  to  write  and  tell  me  everything.  Your 
letters  create  an  inner  life  of  passion  within  my  homely, 
peaceful  household,  which  reminds  me  of  a  level  highroad 
on  a  gray  day.  The  only  event  here,  my  sweet,  is  that  I  am 
playing  cross-purposes  with  myself.  But  I  don't  want  to  tell 
you  about  it  just  now;  it  must  wait  for  another  day.  With 
dogged  obstinacy,  I  pass  from  despair  to  hope,  now  yielding, 
now  holding  back.  It  may  be  that  I  ask  from  life  more  than 
we  have  a  right  to  claim.  In  youth  we  are  so  ready  to 
believe  that  the  ideal  and  the  real  will  harmonize! 

I  have  been  pondering  alone,  seated  beneath  a  rock  in  my 
park,  and  the  fruit  of  my  pondering  is  that  love  in  marriage 
is  a  happy  accident  on  which  it  is  impossible  to  base  a  uni- 
versal law.  My  Aveyron  philosopher  is  right  in  looking  on 
the  family  as  the  only  possible  unit  in  society,  and  in  placing 
woman  in  subjection  to  the  family,  as  she  has  been  in  all 
ages.  The  solution  of  this  great — for  us  almost  awful — ques- 
tion lies  in  our  first  child.  For  this  reason,  I  would  gladly 
be  a  mother,  were  it  only  to  supply  food  for  the  consuming 
energy  of  my  soul. 

Louis's  temper  remains  as  perfect  as  ever;  his  love  is  of 
the  active,  my  tenderness  of  the  passive,  type.  He  is  happy, 
plucking  the  flowers  which  bloom  for  him,  without  troubling 
about  the  labor  of  the  earth  which  has  produced  them. 
Blessed  self -absorption!  At  whatever  cost  to  myself,  I  fall 
in  with  his  illusions,  as  a  mother,  in  my  idea  of  her,  should 
be  ready  to  spend  herself  to  satisfy  a  fancy  of  her  child. 


514  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

The  intensity  of  his  joy  blinds  him,  and  even  throws  its 
reflection  upon  me.  The  smile  or  look  of  satisfaction  which 
the  knowledge  of  his  content  brings  to  my  face  is  enough  to 
satisfy  him.  And  so,  "my  child"  is  the  pet  name  which  I 
give  him  when  we  are  alone. 

And  I  wait  for  the  fruit  of  all  these  sacrifices  which  re- 
main a  secret  between  God,  myself,  and  you.  On  mother- 
hood I  have  staked  enormously;  my  credit  account  is  now 
too  large,  I  fear  I  shall  never  receive  full  payment.  To  it  I 
look  for  employment  of  my  energy,  expansion  of  my  heart, 
and  the  compensation  of  a  world  of  joys.  Pray  Heaven  I  be 
not  deceived!  It  is  a  question  of  all  my  future  and,  horrible 
thought,  of  my  virtue. 

XXI 

LOUISE   DE   CHAULIEU   TO   RENEE   DE   I/ESTORADE 

June. 

AR  WEDDED  SWEETHEART— Your  letter  has 
arrived  at  the  very  moment  to  hearten  me  for  a  bold 
step  which  I  have  been  meditating  night  and  day. 
I  feel  within  me  a  strange  craving  for  the  unknown,  or,  if 
you  will,  the  forbidden,  which  makes  me  uneasy  and  reveals 
a  conflict  in  progress  in  my  soul  between  the  laws  of  society 
and  of  nature.  I  cannot  tell  whether  nature  in  me  is  the 
stronger  of  the  two,  but  I  surprise  myself  in  the  act  of  me- 
diating between  the  hostile  powers. 

In  plain  words,  what  I  wanted  was  to  speak  with  Felipe, 
alone,  at  night,  under  the  lime-trees  at  the  bottom  of  our 
garden.  There  is  no  denying  that  this  desire  beseems  the 
girl  who  has  earned  the  epithet  of  an  "up-to-date  young 
lady,"  bestowed  on  me  by  the  Duchess  in  jest,  and  which 
my  father  has  approved. 

Yet  to  me  there  seems  a  method  in  this  madness.  I 
should  recompense  Felipe  for  the  long  nights  he  has  passed 
under  my  window,  at  the  same  time  that  I  should  test  him, 
by  seeing  what  he  thinks  of  my  escapade  and  how  he  com- 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  515 

ports  himself  at  a  critical  moment.  Let  him  cast  a  halo  round 
my  folly — behold  in  him  my  husband;  let  him  show  one  iota 
less  of  the  tremulous  respect  with  which  he  bows  to  me  in  the 
Champs  Elysees — farewell,  Don  Felipe. 

As  for  society,  I  run  less  risk  in  meeting  my  lover  thus 
than  when  I  smile  to  him  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  Mme.  de 
Maufrigneuse  and  the  old  Marquise  de  Beauseant,  where 
spies  now  surround  us  on  every  side;  and  Heaven  only 
knows  how  people  stare  at  the  girl,  suspected  of  a  weakness 
for  a  grotesque,  like  Macumer. 

I  cannot  tell  you  to  what  a  state  of  agitation  I  am  reduced 
by  dreaming  of  this  idea,  and  the  time  I  have  given  to  plan- 
ning its  execution.  I  wanted  you  badly.  What  happy  hours 
we  should  have  chattered  away,  lost  in  the  mazes  of  uncer- 
tainty, enjoying  in  anticipation  all  the  delights  and  horrors 
of  a  first  meeting  in  the  silence  of  night,  under  the  noble 
lime-trees  of  the  Chaulieu  mansion,  with  the  moonlight 
dancing  through  the  leaves!  As  I  sat  alone,  every  nerve 
tingling,  I  cried,  "Oh!  Rene*e,  where  are  you?"  Then 
your  letter  came,  like  a  match  to  gunpowder,  and  my  last 
scruples  went  by  the  board. 

Through  the  window  I  tossed  to  my  bewildered  adorer  an 
exact  tracing  of  the  key  of  the  little  gate  at  the  end  of  the 
garden,  together  with  this  note: 

"Your  madness  must  really  be  put  a  stop  to.  If  you 
broke  your  neck,  you  would  ruin  the  reputation  of  the  woman 
you  profess  to  love.  Are  you  worthy  of  a  new  proof  of  re- 
gard, and  do  you  deserve  that  I  should  talk  with  you  under 
the  limes  at  the  foot  of  the  garden  at  the  hour  when  the  moon 
throws  them  into  shadow?" 

Yesterday,  at  one  o'clock,  when  Griffith  was  going  to  bed, 
I  said  to  her: 

"Take  your  shawl,  dear,  and  come  out  with  me.  I  want 
to  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  garden  without  any  one  knowing." 

Without  a  word,  she  followed  me.  Oh !  my  Een^e,  what 
an  awful  moment  when,  after  a  little  pause  full  of  delicious 


516  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

thrills  of  agony,  I  saw  him  gliding  along  like  a  shadow. 
When  he  had  reached  the  garden  safely,  I  said  to  Griffith: 

"Don't  be  astonished,  but  the  Baron  de  Macumer  is  here, 
and,  indeed,  it  is  on  that  account  I  brought  you  with  me." 

No  reply  from  Griffith. 

"What  would  you  have  with  me?"  said  Felipe,  in  a  tone 
of  such  agitation  that  it  was  easy  to  see  he  was  driven  beside 
himself  by  the  noise,  slight  as  it  was,  of  our  dresses  in  the 
silence  of  the  night  and  of  our  steps  upon  the  gravel. 

"I  want  to  say  to  you  what  I  could  not  write,"  I  replied. 

Griffith  withdrew  a  few  steps.  It  was  one  of  those  mild 
nights  when  the  air  is  heavy  with  the  scent  of  flowers.  My 
head  swam  with  the  intoxicating  delight  of  finding  myself 
all  but  alone  with  him  in  the  friendly  shade  of  the  lime-trees, 
beyond  which  lay  the  garden,  shining  all  the  more  brightly 
because  the  white  facade  of  the  house  reflected  the  moon- 
light. The  contrast  seemed,  as  it  were,  an  emblem  of  our 
clandestine  love  leading  up  to  the  glaring  publicity  of  a  wed- 
ding. Neither  of  us  could  do  more  at  first  than  drink  in 
silently  the  ecstasy  of  a  moment,  as  new  and  marvellous  for 
him  as  for  me.  At  last  I  found  tongue  to  say,  pointing  to 
the  elm-tree: 

"Although  I  am  not  afraid  of  scandal,  you  shall  not  climb 
that  tree  again.  We  have  long  enough  played  schoolboy  and 
schoolgirl,  let  us  rise  now  to  the  height  of  our  destiny.  Had 
the  fall  killed  you,  I  should  have  died  disgraced  ..." 

I  looked  at  him.     Every  scrap  of  color  had  left  his  face. 

"And  if  you  had  been  found  there,  suspicion  would  have 
attached  either  to  my  mother  or  to  me.  ..." 

"Forgive  me,"  he  murmured. 

"If  you  walk  along  the  boulevard,  I  shall  hear  your  step; 
and  when  I  want  to  see  you,  I  will  open  my  window.  But 
I  would  not  run  such  a  risk  unless  some  emergency  arose. 
Why  have  you  forced  me  by  your  rash  act  to  commit  another, 
and  one  which  may  lower  me  in  your  eyes  ? ' ' 

The  tears  which  I  saw  in  his  eyes  were  to  me  the  most 
eloquent  of  answers. 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  517 

"What  I  have  done  to-night,"  I  went  on  with  a  smile, 
"must  seem  to  you  the  height  of  madness  ..." 

After  we  had  walked  up  and  down  in  silence  more  than 
once,  he  recovered  composure  enough  to  say: 

"You  must  think  rne  a  fool;  and,  indeed,  the  delirium 
of  my  joy  has  robbed  me  of  both  nerve  and  wits.  Bat  of 
this  at  least  be  assured,  whatever  you  do  is  sacred  in  my 
eyes  from  the  very  fact  that  it  seemed  right  to  you.  I  honor 
you  as  1  honor  only  God  besides.  And  then,  Miss  Griffith 
is  here." 

"She  is  here  for  the  sake  of  others,  not  for  us,"  I  put 
in  hastily. 

My  dear,  he  understood  me  at  once. 

"I  know  very  well,"  he  said,  with  the  humblest  glance 
at  me,  "that  whether  she  is  there  or  not  makes  no  difference. 
Unseen  of  men,  we  are  still  in  the  presence  of  God,  and  our 
own  esteem  is  not  less  important  to  us  than  that  of  the  world." 

"Thank  you,  Felipe,"  I  said,  holding  out  my  hand  to  him 
with  a  gesture  which  you  ought  to  see.  "A  woman,  and  I 
am  nothing  if  not  a  woman,  is  on  the  road  to  loving  the  man 
who  understands  her.  Oh!  only  on  the  road,"  I  went  on, 
with  a  finger  ou  my  lips.  "Don't  let  your  hopes  carry  you 
beyond  what  I  say.  My  heart  will  belong  only  to  the  man 
who  can  read  it  and  know  its  every  turn.  Our  views,  with- 
out being  absolutely  identical,  must  be  the  same  in  their 
breadth  and  elevation.  I  have  no  wish  to  exaggerate  my 
own  merits;  doubtless  what  seem  virtues  in  my  eyes  have 
their  corresponding  defects.  All  I  can  say  is,  I  should  be 
heartbroken  without  them." 

"Having  first  accepted  me  as  your  servant,  you  now  per- 
mit me  to  love  you, ' '  he  said,  trembling  and  looking  in  my 
face  at  each  word.  "My  first  prayer  has  been  more  than 
answered." 

"But,"  I  hastened  to  reply,  "your  position  seems  to  me 
a  better  one  than  mine.  I  should  not  object  to  change  places, 
and  this  change  it  lies  with  you  to  bring  about." 

"In  my  turn,  I  thank  you,"  he  replied.     "I  know  the 


518  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

duties  of  a  faithful  lover.  It  is  mine  to  prove  that  I  am 
worthy  of  you ;  the  trials  shall  be  as  long  as  you  choose  to 
make  them.  If  I  belie  your  hopes,  you  have  only — God! 
that  I  should  say  it — to  reject  me. ' ' 

"I  know  that  you  love  me,"  I  replied.  "/Sb  /a/1,"  with 
a  cruel  emphasis  on  the  words,  "you  stand  first  in  my  regard. 
Otherwise  you  would  not  be  here." 

Then  we  began  again  to  walk  up  and  down  as  we  talked, 
and  I  must  say  that  so  soon  as  my  Spaniard  had  recovered 
himself  he  put  forth  the  genuine  eloquence  of  the  heart.  It 
was  not  passion  it  breathed,  but  a  marvellous  tenderness  of 
feeling,  which  he  beautifully  compared  to  the  divine  love. 
His  thrilling  voice,  which  lent  an  added  charm  to  thoughts, 
in  themselves  so  exquisite,  reminded  me  of  the  nightingale's 
note.  He  spoke  low,  using  only  the  middle  tones  of  a  fine 
instrument,  and  words  flowed  upon  words  with  the  rush  of 
a  torrent.  It  was  the  overflow  of  the  heart. 

"No  more,"  I  said,  "or  I  shall  not  be  able  to  tear  myself 
away. ' ' 

And  with  a  gesture  I  dismissed  him. 

"You  have  committed  yourself  now,  mademoiselle,"  said 
Griffith. 

"In  England  that  might  be  so,  but  not  in  France,"  I 
replied  with  nonchalance.  "I  intend  to  make  a  love  match, 
and  am  feeling  my  way — that  is  all." 

You  see,  dear,  as  love  did  not  come  to  me,  I  had  to  do 
as  Mahomet  did  with  the  mountain. 

Friday. 

ONCE  more  I  have  seen  my  slave.  He  has  become  very 
timid,  and  puts  on  an  air  of  pious  devotion,  which  I  like, 
for  it  seems  to  say  that  he  feels  my  power  and  fascination  in 
every  fibre.  But  nothing  in  his  look  or  manner  can  rouse 
in  these  society  sibyls  any  suspicion  of  the  boundless  love 
which  I  see.  Don't  suppose  though,  dear,  that  I  am  carried 
away,  mastered,  tamed ;  on  the  contrary,  the  taming,  master- 
ing, and  carrying  away  are  on  my  side.  .  .  . 

In  short,  I  am  quite  capable  of  reason.     Oh  I  to  feel  again 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  519 

the  terror  of  that  fascination  in  which  I  was  held  by  the 
schoolmaster,  the  plebeian,  the  man  I  kept  at  a  distance! 

The  fact  is  that  love  is  of  two  kinds — one  which  com- 
mands, and  one  which  obeys.  The  two  are  quite  distinct, 
and  the  passion  to  which  the  one  gives  rise  is  not  the  pas- 
sion of  the  other.  To  get  her  full  of  life,  perhaps  a  woman 
ought  to  have  experience  of  both.  Can  the  two  passions 
ever  co-exist?  Can  the  man  in  whom  we  inspire  love  in- 
spire it  in  us  ?  Will  the  day  ever  come  when  Felipe  is  my 
master  ?  Shall  I  tremble  then,  as  he  does  now  ?  These  are 
questions  which  make  me  shudder. 

He  is  very  blind!  In  his  place  I  should  have  thought 
Mile,  de  Chaulieu,  meeting  me  under  the  limes,  a  cold, 
calculating  coquette,  with  starched  manners.  No,  that  is 
not  love,  it  is  playing  with  fire.  I  am  still  fond  of  Felipe, 
but  I  am  calm  and  at  my  ease  with  him  now.  No  more  ob- 
stacles! What  a  terrible  thought!  It  is  all  ebb-tide  within, 
and  I  fear  to  question  my  heart.  His  mistake  was  in  con- 
cealing the  ardor  of  his  love;  he  ought  to  have  forced  my 
self-control. 

In  a  word,  I  was  naughty,  and  I  have  not  got  the  reward 
such  naughtiness  brings.  No,  dear,  however  sweet  the  mem- 
ory of  that  half  hour  beneath  the  trees,  it  is  nothing  like  the 
excitement  of  the  old  time  with  its:  "Shall  I  go?  Shall  I 
not  go?  Shall  I  write  to  him ?  Shall  I  not  write?" 

Is  it  thus  with  all  our  pleasures  ?  Is  suspense  always  bet- 
ter than  enjoyment  ?  Hope  than  fruition  ?  Is  it  the  rich 
who  in  very  truth  are  the  poor  ?  Have  we  not  both  perhaps 
exaggerated  feeling  by  giving  to  imagination  too  free  a  rein  ? 
There  are  times  when  this  thought  freezes  me.  Shall  I  tell 
you  why?  Because  I  am  meditating  another  visit  to  the 
bottom  of  the  garden — without  Griffith.  How  far  could  I 
go  in  this  direction  ?  Imagination  knows  no  limit,  but  it  is 
not  so  with  pleasure.  Tell  me,  dear  bef urbelowed  Professor, 
how  can  one  reconcile  the  two  goals  of  a  woman's  existence  ? 


520  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

XXII 
LOUISE   TO    FELIPE 

/AM  NOT  pleased  with  you.  If  you  did  not  cry  over 
Eacine's  "Berenice,"  and  feel  it  to  be  the  most  ter- 
rible of  tragedies,  there  is  no  kinship  in  our  souls; 
we  shall  never  get  on  together,  and  had  better  break  off 
at  once.  Let  us  meet  no  more.  Forget  me;  for  if  I  do 
not  have  a  satisfactory  reply,  I  shall  forget  you.  You 
will  become  M.  le  Baron  de  Macumer  for  me,  or  rather 
you  will  cease  to  be  at  all. 

Yesterday  at  Mine.  d'Espard's  you  had  a  self -satisfied 
air  which  disgusted  me.  No  doubt,  apparently,  about 
your  conquest!  In  sober  earnest,  your  self-possession 
alarms  me.  Not  a  trace  in  you  of  the  humble  slave  of 
your  first  letter.  Far  from  betraying  the  absent-minded- 
ness of  a  lover,  you  polished  epigrams!  This  is  not  the 
attitude  of  a  true  believer,  always  prostrate  before  his 
divinity. 

If  you  do  not  feel  me  to  be  the  very  breath  of  your  life, 
a  being  nobler  than  other  women,  and  to  be  judged  by  other 
standards,  then  I  must  be  less  than  a  woman  in  your  sight. 
You  have  roused  in  me  a  spirit  of  mistrust,  Felipe,  and  its 
angry  mutterings  have  drowned  the  accents  of  tenderness. 
When  I  look  back  upon  what  has  passed  between  us,  I  feel 
in  truth  that  I  have  a  right  to  be  suspicious.  For  know, 
Prime  Minister  of  all  the  Spains,  that  I  have  reflected  much 
on  the  defenceless  condition  of  our  sex.  My  innocence  has 
held  a  torch,  and  my  fingers  are  not  burned.  Let  me  repeat 
to  you,  then,  what  my  youthful  experience  taught  me. 

In  all  other  matters,  duplicity,  faithlessness,  and  broken 
pledges  are  brought  to  book  and  punished ;  but  not  so  with 
love,  which  is  at  once  the  victim,  the  accuser,  the  counsel, 
judge,  and  executioner.  The  cruellest  treachery,  the  most 
heartless  crimes,  are  those  which  remain  forever  concealed, 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES 

with  two  hearts  alone  for  witness.  How  indeed  should  the 
victim  proclaim  them  without  injury  to  herself?  Love, 
therefore,  has  its  own  code,  its  own  penal  system,  with 
which  the  world  has  no  concern. 

Now,  for  my  part,  I  have  resolved  never  to  pardon  a 
serious  misdemeanor,  and  in  love,  pray,  what  is  not  seri- 
ous ?  Yesterday  you  had  all  the  air  of  a  man  successful 
in  his  suit.  You  would  be  wrong  to  doubt  it;  and  yet,  if 
this  assurance  robbed  you  of  the  charming  simplicity 
which  sprang  from  uncertainty,  I  should  blame  you  se- 
verely. I  would  have  you  neither  bashful  nor  self-com- 
placent; I  would  not  have  you  in  terror  of  losing  my 
affection — that  would  be  an  insult — but  neither  would  I 
have  you  wear  your  love  lightly  as  a  thing  of  course. 
Never  should  your  heart  be  freer  than  mine.  If  you 
know  nothing  of  the  torture  that  a  single  stab  of  doubt  brings 
to  the  soul,  tremble  lest  I  give  you  a  lesson! 

In  a  single  glance  I  confided  my  heart  to  you,  and  you 
read  the  meaning.  The  purest  feelings  that  ever  took  root 
in  a  young  girl's  breast  are  yours.  The  thought  and  medita- 
tion of  which  I  have  told  you  served  indeed  only  to  enrich 
the  mind;  but  if  ever  the  wounded  heart  turns  to  the  brain 
for  counsel,  be  sure  the  young  girl  would  show  some  kinship 
with  the  demon  of  knowledge  and  of  daring. 

I  swear  to  you,  Felipe,  if  you  love  me,  as  I  believe  you 
do,  and  if  I  have  reason  to  suspect  the  least  falling  off  in  the 
fear,  obedience,  and  respect  which  you  have  hitherto  pro- 
fessed, if  the  pure  flame  of  passion  which  first  kindled  the 
fire  of  my  heart  should  seem  to  me  any  day  to  burn  less 
vividly,  you  need  fear  no  reproaches.  I  would  not  weary 
you  with  letters  bearing  any  trace  of  weakness,  pride,  or 
anger,  nor  even  with  one  of  warning  like  this.  But  if  I  spoke 
no  words,  Felipe,  my  face  would  tell  you  that  death  was  near. 
And  yet  I  should  not  die  till  I  had  branded  you  with  infamy, 
and  sown  eternal  sorrow  in  your  heart;  you  would  see  the 
girl  you  loved  dishonored  and  lost  in  this  world,  and  know 
her  doomed  to  everlasting  suffering  in  the  next. 


622  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

Do  not  therefore,  I  implore  you,  give  me  cause  to  envy 
the  old,  happy  Louise,  the  object  of  your  pure  worship, 
whose  heart  expanded  in  the  sunshine  of  happiness,  since, 
in  the  words  of  Dante,  she  possessed, 

"Senza  brama,  sicura  ricchezza!" 

I  have  searched  the  "Inferno"  through  to  find  the  most  ter- 
rible punishment,  some  torture  of  the  mind  to  which  I  might 
link  the  vengeance  of  God. 

Yesterday,  as  I  watched  you,  doubt  went  through  me  like 
a  sharp,  cold  dagger's  point.  Do  you  know  what  that  means  ? 
I  mistrusted  you,  and  the  pang  was  so  terrible  I  could  not 
endure  it  longer.  If  my  service  be  too  hard,  leave  it,  I 
would  not  keep  you.  Do  I  need  any  proof  of  your  clever- 
ness ?  Keep  for  me  the  flowers  of  your  wit.  Show  to  others 
no  fine  surface  to  call  forth  flattery,  compliments,  or  praise. 
Come  to  me,  laden  with  hatred  or  scorn,  the  butt  of  calumny, 
come  to  me  with  the  news  that  women  flout  you  and  ignore 
you,  and  not  one  loves  you;  then,  ah!  then  you  will  know 
the  treasures  of  Louise's  heart  and  love. 

We  are  only  rich  when  our  wealth  is  buried  so  deep  that 
all  the  world  might  trample  it  underfoot,  unknowing.  If 
you  were  handsome,  I  don't  suppose  I  should  have  looked 
at  you  twice,  or  discovered  one  of  the  thousand  reasons  out 
of  which  my  love  sprang.  True,  we  know  no  more  of  these 
reasons  than  we  know  why  it  is  the  sun  makes  the  flowers 
to  bloom,  and  ripens  the  fruit.  Yet  I  could  tell  you  of  one 
reason  very  dear  to  me. 

The  character,  expression,  and  individuality  that  ennoble 
your  face  are  a  sealed  book  to  all  but  me.  Mine  is  the  power 
which  transforms  you  into  the  most  lovable  of  men,  and  that 
is  why  I  would  keep  your  mental  gifts  also  for  myself.  To 
others  they  should  be  as  meaningless  as  your  eyes,  the  charm 
of  your  mouth  and  features.  Let  it  be  mine  alone  to  kindle 
the  beacon  of  your  intelligence,  as  I  bring  the  love-light  into 
your  eyes.  I  would  have  you  the  Spanish  grandee  of  old 
days,  cold,  ungracious,  haughty,  a  monument  to  be  gazed 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  523 

at  from  afar,  like  the  ruins  of  some  barbaric  power,  which  no 
one  ventures  to  explore.  Now,  you  have  nothing  better 
to  do  than  to  open  up  pleasant  promenades  for  the  public, 
and  show  yourself  of  a  Parisian  affability! 

Is  my  ideal  portrait,  then,  forgotten?  Your  excessive 
cheerfulness  was  redolent  of  your  love.  Had  it  not  been  for 
a  restraining  glance  from  me,  you  would  have  proclaimed 
to  the  most  sharp-sighted,  keen-witted,  and  unsparing  of 
Paris  salons  that  your  inspiration  was  drawn  from  Armande- 
Lomse-Marie  de  Chaulieu. 

I  believe  in  your  greatness  too  much  to  think  for  a  mo- 
ment that  your  love  is  ruled  by  policy;  but  if  you  did  not 
show  a  childlike  simplicity  when  with  me,  I  could  only  pity 
you.  Suite  of  this  first  fault,  you  are  still  deeply  admired  by 

LOUISE  DE  CHAULIEU. 


XXIII 

FELIPE   TO   LOUISE 

~W ~TT ~f 'HEN  GOD  beholds  our  faults,  He  sees  also  our 
£'£'  repentance.  Yes,  my  beloved  mistress,  you  are 
right.  I  felt  that  I  had  displeased  you,  but 
knew  not  how.  Now  that  you  have  explained  the  cause 
of  your  trouble,  I  find  in  it  fresh  motive  to  adore  you. 
Like  the  God  of  Israel,  you  are  a  jealous  deity,  and  I  re- 
joice to  see  it.  For  what  is  holier  and  more  precious  than 
jealousy  ?  My  fair  guardian  angel,  jealousy  is  an  ever- 
wakeful  sentinel;  it  is  to  love  what  pain  is  to  the  body, 
the  faithful  herald  of  evil.  Be  jealous  of  your  servant, 
Louise,  I  beg  of  you;  the  harder  you  strike,  the  more 
contrite  will  he  be  and  kiss  the  rod,  in  all  submission, 
which  proves  that  he  is  not  indifferent  to  you. 

But,  alas!  dear,  if  the  pains  it  cost  me  to  vanquish  my 
timidity  and  master  feelings  you  thought  so  feeble  were 
invisible  to  you,  will  Heaven,  think  you,  reward  them? 
I  assure  you,  it  needed  no  slight  effort  to  show  myself  to 


524  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

you  as  I  was  in  the  days  before  I  loved.  At  Madrid  I 
was  considered  a  good  talker,  and  I  wanted  you  to  see  for 
yourself  the  few  gifts  I  may  possess.  If  this  were  vanity, 
it  has  been  well  punished. 

Your  last  glance  utterly  unnerved  me.  Never  had  I  so 
quailed,  even  when  the  army  of  France  was  at  the  gates 
of  Cadiz  and  I  read  peril  for  my  life  in  the  dissembling 
words  of  my  royal  master.  Vainly  I  tried  to  discover  the 
cause  of  your  displeasure,  and  the  lack  of  sympathy  be- 
tween us  which  this  fact  disclosed  was  terrible  to  me. 
For  in  truth  I  have  no  wish  but  to  act  by  your  will,  think 
your  thoughts,  see  with  your  eyes,  respond  to  your  joy 
and  suffering,  as  my  body  responds  to  heat  and  cold. 
The  crime  and  the  anguish  lay  for  me  in  the  breach  of 
unison  in  that  common  life  of  feeling  which  you  have 
made  so  fair. 

"I  have  vexed  her!"  I  exclaimed  over  and  over  again, 
like  one  distraught.  My  noble,  my  beautiful  Louise,  if 
anything  could  increase  the  fervor  of  my  devotion  or 
confirm  my  belief  in  your  delicate  moral  intuitions,  it 
would  be  the  new  light  which  your  words  have  thrown 
upon  my  own  feelings.  Much  in  them,  of  which  my  mind 
was  formerly  but  dimly  conscious,  you  have  now  made 
clear.  If  this  be  designed  as  chastisement,  what  can  be 
the  sweetness  of  your  rewards? 

Louise,  for  me  it  was  happiness  enough  to  be  accepted 
as  your  servant.  You  have  given  me  the  life  of  which  I 
despaired.  No  longer  do  I  draw  a  useless  breath,  I  have 
something  to  spend  myself  for;  my  force  has  an  outlet,  if 
only  in  suffering  for  you.  Once  more  I  say,  as  I  have 
said  before,  that  you  will  never  find  me  other  than  I  was 
when  first  I  offered  myself  as  your  lowly  bondman.  Yes, 
were  you  dishonored  and  lost,  to  use  your  own  words,  my 
heart  would  only  cling  the  more  closely  to  you  for  your 
self-sought  misery.  It  would  be  my  care  to  stanch  your 
wounds,  and  my  prayers  should  importune  God  with  the 
story  of  your  innocence  and  your  wrongs. 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  525 

Did  I  not  tell  you  that  the  feelings  of  my  "heart  for  you 
are  not  a  lover's  only,  that  I  will  be  to  you  father,  mother, 
sister,  brother — ay,  a  whole  family — anything  or  nothing, 
as  you  may  decree  ?  And  is  it  not  your  own  wish  which 
has  confined  within  the  compass  of  a  lover's  feeling  so 
many  varying  forms  of  devotion  ?  Pardon  me,  then,  if  at 
times  the  father  and  brother  disappear  behind  the  lover, 
since  you  know  they  are  none  the  less  there,  though 
screened  from  view.  Would  that  you  could  read  the 
feelings  of  my  heart  when  you  appear  before  me,  radi- 
ant in  your  beauty,  the  centre  of  admiring  eyes,  reclin- 
ing calmly  in  your  carriage  in  the  Champs  Elyse'es,  or 
seated  in  your  box  at  the  Opera!  Then  would  you  know 
how  absolutely  free  from  selfish  taint  is  the  pride  with 
which  I  hear  the  praises  of  your  loveliness  and  grace, 
praises  which  warm  my  heart  even  to  the  strangers  who 
utter  them!  When  by  chance  you  have  raised  me  to 
elysium  by  a  friendly  greeting,  my  pride  is  mingled  with 
humility,  and  I  depart  as  though  God's  blessing  rested  on 
me.  Nor  does  the  joy  vanish  without  leaving  a  long  track 
of  light  behind.  It  breaks  on  me  through  the  clouds  of 
my  cigarette  smoke.  More  than  ever  do  I  feel  how  every 
drop  of  this  surging  blood  throbs  for  you. 

Can  you  be  ignorant  how  you  are  loved  ?  After  seeing 
you,  I  return  to  my  study,  and  the  glitter  of  its  Saracenic 
ornaments  sinks  to  nothing  before  the  brightness  of  your 
portrait,  when  I  open  the  spring  that  keeps  it  locked  up 
from  every  eye  and  lose  myself  in  endless  musings  or  link 
my  happiness  to  verse.  From  the  heights  of  heaven  I  look 
down  upon  the  course  of  a  life  such  as  my  hopes  dare  to 
picture  it!  Have  you  never,  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 
or  through  the  roar  of  the  town,  heard  the  whisper  of  a 
voice  in  your  sweet,  dainty  ear?  Does  no  one  of  the 
thousand  prayers  that  I  speed  to  you  reach  home  ? 

By  dint  of  silent  contemplation  of  your  pictured  face,  I 
have  succeeded  in  deciphering  the  expression  of  every  fea- 
ture and  tracing  its  connection  with  some  grace  of  the 


526  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

spirit,  and  th*en  I  pen  a  sonnet  to  you  in  Spanish  on  the 
harmony  of  the  twofold  beauty  in  which  nature  has  clothed 
you.  These  sonnets  you  will  never  see,  for  my  poetry  is 
too  unworthy  of  its  theme,  I  dare  not  send  it  to  you.  Not 
a  moment  passes  without  thoughts  of  you,  for  my  whole 
being  is  bound  up  in  you,  and  if  you  ceased  to  be  its  ani- 
mating principle,  every  part  would  ache. 

Now,  Louise,  can  you  realize  the  torture  to  me  of  know- 
ing that  I  had  displeased  you,  while  entirely  ignorant  of  the 
cause?  The  ideal  double  life  which  seemed  so  fair  was  cut 
short.  My  heart  turned  to  ice  within  me  as,  hopeless  of  any 
other  explanation,  I  concluded  that  you  had  ceased  to  love 
me.  With  heavy  heart,  and  yet  not  wholly  without  com- 
fort, I  was  falling  back  upon  my  old  post  as  servant;  then 
your  letter  came  and  turned  all  to  joy.  Oh!  might  I  but 
listen  forever  to  such  chiding! 

Once  a  child,  picking  himself  up  from  a  tumble,  turned 
to  his  mother  with  the  words  "Forgive  me."  Hiding  his 
own  hurt,  he  sought  pardon  for  the  pain  he  had  caused 
her.  Louise,  I  was  that  child,  and  such  as  I  was  then,  I 
am  now.  Here  is  the  key  to  my  character,  which  your 
slave  in  all  humility  places  in  your  hands. 

But  do  not  fear,  there  will  be  no  more  stumbling.  Keep 
tight  the  chain  which  binds  me  to  you,  so  that  a  touch  may 
communicate  your  lightest  wish  to  him  who  will  ever  remain 
your  slave,  FELIPE. 

XXIV 

LOUISE   DE   CHAULIEU   TO   RENEE   DE   I/ESTORADE 

October,  1825. 

71   STY  DEAR  FBIEX&—E.OW  is  it  possible  that  you, 

/\/i     wno  brought  yourself  in  two  months  to  marry  a 

broken-down   invalid   in    order    to    mother    him^ 

should   know   anything    of    that    terrible    shifting    drama, 

enacted  in  the   recesses  of  the   heart,  which  we  call  love 

— a  drama  where  death  lies  in  a  glance  or  a  light  reply  ? 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  527 

I  had  reserved  for  Felipe  one  last  supreme  test  which  was 
to  be  decisive.  I  wanted  to  know  whether  his  love  was  the 
love  of  a  Royalist  for  his  King,  who  can  do  no  wrong.  Why 
should  the  loyalty  of  a  Catholic  be  less  supreme? 

He  walked  with  me  a  whole  night  under  the  limes  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden,  and  not  a  shadow  of  suspicion  crossed 
his  soul,  Next  day  he  loved  me  better,  but  the  feeling  was 
as  reverent,  as  humble,  as  respectful  as  ever;  he  had  not  pre- 
sumed an  iota.  Oh!  he  is  a  very  Spaniard,  a  very  Aben- 
cerrage.  He  scaled  my  wall  to  come  and  kiss  the  hand 
which  in  the  darkness  I  reached  down  to  him  from  my  bal- 
cony. He  might  have  broken  his  neck;  how  many  of  our 
young  men  would  do  the  like? 

But  all  this  is  nothing;  Christians  suffer  the  horrible 
pangs  of  martyrdom  in  the  hope  of  heaven.  The  day  before 
yesterday  I  took  aside  the  royal  ambassador-to-be  at  the 
Court  of  Spain,  my  much-respected  father,  and  said  to  him 
with  a  smile: 

"Sir,  some  of  your  friends  will  have  it  that  you  are 
marrying  your  dear  Armande  to  the  nephew  of  an  ambassa- 
dor who  has  been  very  anxious  for  this  connection,  and  has 
long  begged  for  it.  Also,  that  the  marriage-contract  arranges 
for  his  nephew  to  succeed  on  his  death  to  his  enormous  for- 
tune and  his  title,  and  bestows  on  the  young  couple  in  the 
meantime  an  income  of  a  hundred  thousand  livres,  on  the 
bride  a  dowry  of  eight  hundred  thousand  francs.  Your 
daughter  weeps,  but  bows  to  the  unquestioned  authority  of 
her  honored  parent.  Some  people  are  unkind  enough  to  say 
that,  behind  her  tears,  she  conceals  a  worldly  and  ambitious 
soul. 

"Now,  we  are  going  to  the  gentleman's  box  at  the  Opera 
to-night,  and  M.  le  Baron  de  Macumer  will  visit  us  there." 

"Macumer  needs  a  touch  'of  the  spur  then,"  said  my 
father,  smiling  at  me,  as  though  I  were  a  female  ambas- 
sador. 

"You  mistake  Clarissa  Harlowe  for  Figaro!"  I  cried,  with 
a  glance  of  scorn  and  mockery.  "When  you  see  me  with 


528  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

my  right  hand  ungloved,  you  will  give  the  lie  to  this  imper- 
tinent gossip,  and  will  mark  your  displeasure  at  it." 

"I  may  make  my  mind  easy  about  your  future.  You 
have  no  more  got  a  girl's  headpiece  than  Jeanne  d'Arc  had 
a  woman's  heart.  You  will  be  happy,  you  will  love  nobody, 
and  will  allow  yourself  to  be  loved." 

This  was  too  much.     I  burst  into  laughter. 

"What  is  it,  little  flirt?"  he  said. 

"I  tremble  for  my  country's  interests  ..." 

And  seeing  him  look  quite  blank,  I  added: 

"At  Madrid!" 

"You  have  no  idea  how  this  little  nun  has  learned,  in 
a  year's  time,  to  make  fun  of  her  father,"  he  said  to  the 
Duchess. 

"Armande  makes  light  of  everything,"  my  mother  re- 
plied, looking  me  in  the  face. 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  you  are  not  even  afraid  of  rheumatism  on  these 
damp  nights,"  she  said,  with  another  meaning  glance  at  me. 

"Oh!"  I  answered,  "the  mornings  are  so  hot!" 

The  Duchess  looked  down. 

"It's  high  time  she  were  married,"  said  my  father,  "and 
it  had  better  be  before  I  go." 

"If  you  wish  it,"  I  replied  demurely. 

Two  hours  later,  my  mother  and  I,  the  Duchesse  de  Man- 
frigneuse  and  Mme.  d'Espard,  were  all  four  blooming  like 
roses  in  the  front  of  the  box.  I  had  seated  myself  sidewise, 
giving  only  a  shoulder  to  the  house,  so  that  I  could  see 
everything,  myself  unseen,  in  that  spacious  box  which  fills 
one  of  the  two  angles  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  between  the 
columns. 

Macumer  came,  stood  up,  and  put  his  opera-glasses  before 
his  eyes  so  that  he  might  be  able  to  look  at  me  comfortably. 

In  the  first  ioterval  entered  the  young  man  whom  X  call 
"king  of  the  profligates."  The  Comte  Henri  de  Marsay, 
who  has  great  beauty  of  an  effeminate  kind,  entered  the  box 
with  an  epigram  in  his  eyes,  a  smile  upon  his  lips,  and  an  air 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  529 

of  satisfaction  over  his  whole  countenance.  He  first  greeted 
my  mother,  Mme.  d'Espard,  and  the  Duchesse  de  Maufri- 
gneuse,  the  Comte  d'Esgrignon,  and  M.  de  Canalis;  then 
turning  to  me,  he  said: 

"I  do  not  know  whether  I  shall  be  the  first  to  congratu- 
late you  on  an  event  which  will  make  you  the  object  of  envy 
to  many. ' ' 

"Ah!  a  marriage!"  I  cried.  "Is  it  left  for  me,  a  girl 
fresh  from  the  convent,  to  tell  you  that  predicted  marriages 
never  come  off. ' ' 

M.  de  Marsay  bent  down,  whispering  to  Macumer,  and 
I  was  convinced,  from  the  movement  of  his  lips,  that  what 
lie  said  was  this: 

"Baron,  you  are  perhaps  in  love  with  that  little  coquette, 
who  has  used  you  for  her  own  ends;  but  as  the  question  is 
one  not  of  love,  but  of  marriage,  it  is  as  well  for  you  to  know 
what  is  going  on." 

Macumer  treated  this  officious  scandalmonger  to  one  of 
those  glances  of  his  which  seem  to  me  so  eloquent  of  noble 
scorn,  and  replied  to  the  effect  that  he  was  "not  in  love  with 
any  little  coquette."  His  whole  bearing  so  delighted  me 
that  directly  I  caught  sight  of  my  father,  the  glove  was  off. 

Felipe  had  not  a  shadow  of  fear  or  doubt.  How  well  did 
he  bear  out  my  expectations !  His  faith  is  only  in  me,  society 
cannot  hurt  him  with  its  lies.  Not  a  muscle  of  the  Arab's 
face  stirred,  not  a  drop  of  the  blue  blood  flushed  his  olive 
cheek. 

The  two  young  Counts  went  out,  and  I  said,  laughing,  to 
Macumer: 

"M.  de  Marsay  has  been  treating  you  to  an  epigram 
on  me." 

"He  did  more,"  he  replied.     "It  was  an  epithalamium." 

"You  speak  Greek  to  me,"  I  said,  rewarding  him  with 
a  smile  and  a  certain  look  which  always  embarrasses  him. 

My  father  meantime  was  talking  to  Mme.  de  Maufri- 
gneuse. 

"I  should  think  so!"  he  exclaimed.     "The  gossip  which 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC — 23 


580  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

gets  about  is  scandalous.  No  sooner  has  a  girl  come  out 
than  every  one  is  keen  to  marry  her,  and  the  ridiculous  stories 
that  are  invented !  I  shall  never  force  Armande  to  marry 
against  her  will.  I  am  going  to  take  a  turn  in  the  prome- 
nade, otherwise  people  will  be  saying  that  I  allowed  the  rumor 
to  spread  in  order  to  suggest  the  marriage  to  the  ambassador; 
and  Caesar's  daughter  ought  to  be  above  suspicion,  even 
more  than  his  wife — if  that  were  possible." 

The  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse  and  Mme.  d'Espard  shot 
glances  first  at  my  mother,  then  at  the  Baron,  brimming  over 
with  sly  intelligence  and  repressed  curiosity.  With  their 
serpent's  cunning  they  had  at  last  got  an  inkling  of  some- 
thing going  on.  Of  all  mysteries  in  life,  love  is  the  least 
mysterious!  It  exhales  from  women,  I  believe,  like  a  per- 
fume, and  she  who  can  conceal  it  is  a  very  monster!  Our 
eyes  prattle  even  more  than  our  tongues. 

Having  enjoyed  the  delightful  sensation  of  finding  Felipe 
rise  to  the  occasion,  as  I  had  wished,  it  was  only  in  nature 
I  should  hunger  for  more.  So  I  made  the  signal  agreed  on 
for  telling  him  that  he  might  come  to  my  window  by  the 
dangerous  road  you  know  of.  A  few  hours  later  I  found 
him,  upright  as  a  statue,  glued  to  the  wall,  his  hand  resting 
on  the  balcony  of  my  window,  studying  the  reflections  of  the 
light  in  my  room. 

"My  dear  Felipe,"  I  said,  "you  have  acquitted  yourself 
well  to-night;  you.  behaved  exactly  as  I  should  have  done 
had  I  been  told  that  you  were  on  the  point  of  marrying. ' ' 

"I  thought,"  he  replied,  "that  you  would  hardly  have 
told  others  before  me." 

"And  what  right  have  you  to  this  privilege?" 

"The  right  of  one  who  is  your  devoted  slave." 

"In  very  truth?" 

"I  am,  and  shall  ever  remain  so." 

"But  suppose  this  marriage  were  inevitable;  suppose  that 
I  had  agreed  ..." 

Two  flashing  glances  lit  up  the  moonlight — one  directed 
to  me,  the  other  to  the  precipice  which  the  wall  made  for  us. 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  531 

He  seemed  to  calculate  whether  a  fall  together  would  mean 
death;  but  the  thought  merely  passed  like  lightning  over  his 
face  and  sparkled  in  his  eyes.  A  power,  stronger  than  pas- 
sion, checked  the  impulse. 

"An  Arab  cannot  take  back  his  word,"  he  said  in  a  husky 
voice.  "I  am  your  slave  to  do  with  as  you  will;  my  life  is 
not  mine  to  destroy. ' ' 

The  hand  on  the  balcony  seemed  as  though  its  hold  were 
relaxing.  I  placed  mine  on  it  as  I  said: 

"Felipe,  my  beloved,  from  this  moment  I  am  your  wife 
in  thought  and  will.  Gro  in  the  morning  to  ask  my  father 
for  my  hand.  He  wishes  to  retain  my  fortune ;  but  if  you 
promise  to  acknowledge  receipt  of  it  in  the  contract,  his  con- 
sent will  no  doubt  be  given.  I  am  no  longer  Armande  de 
Chaulieu.  Leave  me  at  once;  no  breath  of  scandal  must 
touch  Louise  de  Macumer. ' ' 

He  listened  with  blanched  face  and  trembling  limbs,  then, 
like  a  flash,  had  cleared  the  ten  feet  to  the  ground  in  safety. 
It  was  a  moment  of  agony,  but  he  waved  his  hand  to  me  and 
disappeared. 

"I  am  loved  then,"  I  said  to  myself,  "as  never  woman 
was  before."  And  I  fell  asleep  in  the  calm  content  of  a 
child,  my  destiny  forever  fixed. 

About  two  o'clock  next  day  my  father  summoned  me  to 
his  private  room,  where  I  found  the  Duchess  and  Macumer. 
There  was  an  interchange  of  civilities.  I  replied  quite  simply 
that  if  my  father  and  M.  He'narez  were  of  one  mind  I  had 
no  reason  to  oppose  their  wishes.  Thereupon  my  mother 
invited  the  Baron  to  dinner;  and  after  dinner  we  all  four 
went  for  a  drive  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  where  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  smiling  ironically  to  M.  de  Marsay  as  he  passed 
on  horseback  and  caught  sight  of  Macumer  sitting  opposite 
to  us  beside  my  father. 

My  bewitching  Felipe  has  had  his  cards  reprinted  as 
follows : 

HENAREZ 

(Baron  de  Macumer,  formerly  Due  de  Soria). 


532  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Every  morning  he  brings  me  with  his  own  hands  a  splendid 
bouquet,  hidden  in  which  I  never  fail  to  find  a  letter,  con- 
taining a  Spanish  sonnet  in  my  honor,  which  he  has  com- 
posed during  the  night. 

Not  to  make  this  letter  inordinately  large.  I  send  you  as 
specimens  only  the  first  and  last  of  these  sonnets,  which  I 
have  translated  for  your  benefit,  word  for  word,  and  line 
for  line: 

FIRST   SONNET 

Many  a  time  I've  stood,  clad  in  thin  silken  vest, 
Drawn  sword  in  hand,  with  steady  pulse, 
Waiting  the  charge  of  a  raging  bull. 

And  the  thrust  of  his  horn,  sharper-pointed  than  Phoebe's 
crescent. 

I've  scaled,  on  my  lips  the  lilt  of  an  Andalusian  dance, 
The  steep  redoubt  under  a  rain  of  fire ; 
I've  staked  my  life  upon  a  hazard  of  the  dice, 
Careless,  as  though  it  were  a  gold  doubloon. 

My  hand  would  seek  the  ball  out  of  the  cannon's  mouth, 
But  now  meseems  I  grow  more  timid  than  a  crouching  hare, 
Or  a  child  spying  some  ghost  in  the  curtain's  folds. 

For  when  your  sweet  eye  rests  on  me, 

An  icy  sweat  covers  my  brow,  my  knees  give  way, 

I  tremble,  shrink,  my  courage  gone. 

SECOND   SONNET 

Last  night  I  fain  would  sleep  to  dream  of  thee, 
But  jealous  sleep  fled  my  eyelids, 
I  sought  the  balcony  and  looked  toward  heaven, 
Always  my  glance  flies  upward  when  I  think  of  thee. 

Strange  sight!  whose  meaning  love  alone  can  tell, 
The  sky  had  lost  its  sapphire  hue, 
The  stars,  dulled  diamonds  in  their  golden  mount, 
Twinkled  no  more  nor  shed  their  warmth. 

The  moon,  washed  of  her  silver  radiance  lily-white, 

Hung  mourning  over  the  gloomy  plain,  for  thou  hast  robbed 

The  heavens  of  all  that  made  them  bright. 

The  snowy  sparkle  of  the  moon  is  on  thy  lovely  brow, 
Heaven's  azure  centres  in  thine  eyes, 
Thy  lashes  fall  like  starry  rays. 

"What  more  gracious  way  of  saying  to  a  young  girl  that 
she  fills  your  life?  Tell  me  what  you  think  of  this  love, 


LETTERS    OF   TWO   BRIDES  533 

which  expends  itself  in  lavishing  the  treasures  alike  of  the 
earth  and  of  the  soul.  Only  within  the  last  ten  days  have  I 
grasped  the 'meaning  of  that  Spanish  gallantry,  so  famous 
in  old  days. 

Ah  me !  dear,  what  is  going  on  now  at  La  Crampade  ? 
How  often  do  I  take  a  stroll  .there,  inspecting  the  growth 
of  our  crops!  Have  you  no  news  to  give  of  our  mulberry 
trees,  our  last  winter's  plantations?  Does  everything  pros- 
per as  you  wish  ?  And  while  the  buds  are  opening  on  our 
shrubs — I  will  not  venture  to  speak  of  the  bedding- out 
plants — have  they  also  blossomed  in  the  bosom  of  the 
wife?  Does  Louis  continue  his  policy  of  madrigals?  Do 
you  enter  into  each  other's  thoughts  ?  I  wonder  whether 
your  little  runlet  of  wedded  peace  is  better  than  the  raging 
torrent  of  my  love!  Has  my  sweet  lady  professor  taken 
offence?  I  cannot  believe  it;  and  if  it  were  so,  I  should 
send  Felipe  off  at  once,  post-haste,  to  fling  himself  at  her 
knees  and  bring  back  to  me  my  pardon  or  her  head. 
Sweet  love,  my  life  here  is  a  splendid  success,  and  I  want 
to  know  how  it  fares  with  life  in  Provence.  We  have  just 
increased  our  family  by  the  addition  of  a  Spaniard  with  the 
complexion  of  a  Havana  cigar,  and  your  congratulations 
still  tarry. 

Seriously,  my  sweet  Eenee,  I  am  anxious.  I  am  afraid 
lest  you  should  be  eating  your  heart  out  in  silence,  for 
fear  of  casting  a  gloom  over  my  sunshine.  Write  to  me 
at  once,  naughty  child!  and  tell  me  your  life  in  its  every 
minutest  detail;  tell  me  whether  you  still  hold  back, 
whether  your  "independence"  still  stands  erect,  or  has 
fallen  on  its  knees,  or  is  sitting  down  comfortably,  which 
would  indeed  be  serious.  Can  you  suppose  that  the  inci- 
dents of  your  married  life  are  without  interest  for  me? 
I  rnuse  at  times  over  all  that  you  have  said  to  me.  Often 
when,  at  the  Opera,  I  seem  absorbed  in  watching  the 
pirouetting  dancers,  I  am  saying  to  myself,  "It  is  half- 
past  nine,  perhaps  she  is  in  bed.  What  is  she  about? 
Is  she  happy?  Is  she  alone  with  her  independence?  or 


534  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

has   her  independence    gone    the   way   of   other   dead   and 
cast-off  independences  ? ' ' 
A  thousand  loves. 


XXV 

RENEE   DE   I/ESTORADE   TO   LOUISE   DE   CHAULIEU 

ryA  UCY  GIRL!  Why  should  I  write  ?  What  could  I 
t  |  say?  While  your  life  is  varied  by  social  festivities, 
as  well  as  by  the  anguish,  the  tempers,  and  the 
flowers  of  love — all  of  which  you  describe  so  graphically 
that  I  might  be  watching  some  first-rate  acting  at  the  the- 
atre— mine  is  as  monotonous  and  regular  as  though  it  were 
passed  in  a  convent. 

We  always  go  to  bed  at  nine  and  get  up  with  daybreak. 
Our  meals  are  servecl  with  a  maddening  punctuality.  Noth- 
ing ever  happens.  I  have  accustomed  myself  without  much 
difficulty  to  this  mapping  out  of  the  day,  which  perhaps  is, 
after  all,  in  the  nature  of  things.  Where  would  the  life  of 
the  universe  be  but  for  that  subjection  to  fixed  laws  which, 
according  to  the  astronomers,  so  Louis  tells  me,  rule  the 
spheres!  It  is  not  order  of  which  we  weary. 

Then  I  have  laid  upon  myself  certain  rules  of  dress,  and 
these  occupy  my  time  in  the  mornings.  I  hold  it  part  of  my 
duty  as  a  wife  to  look  as  charming  as  possible.  I  feel  a  cer- 
tain satisfaction  in  it,  and  it  causes  lively  pleasure  to  the  good 
old  man  and  to  Louis.  After  lunch,  we  walk.  When  the 
newspapers  arrive,  I  disappear  to  look  after  my  household 
affairs  or  to  read — for  I  read  a  great  deal — or  to  write  to 
you.  I  come  back  to  the  others  an  hour  before  dinner; 
and  after  dinner  we  play  cards,  or  receive  visits,  or  pay 
them.  Thus  my  'days  pass  between  a  contented  old  man, 
who  has  done  with  passions,  and  the  man  who  owes  his 
happiness  to  me.  Louis's  happiness  is  so  radiant  that  it 
has  at  last  warmed  my  heart. 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  535 

For  women,  happiness  no  doubt  cannot  consist  in  the 
mere  satisfaction  of  desire.  Sometimes,  in  the  evening, 
when  I  am  not  required  to  take  a  hand  in  the  game,  and 
can  sink  back  in  my  armchair,  imagination  bears  me  on 
its  stroDg  wings  into  the  very  heart  of  your  life.  Then, 
its  riches,  its  changeful  tints,  its  surging  passions  become 
my  own,  and  I  ask  myself  to  what  end  such  a  stormy 
preface  can  lead.  May  it  not  swallow  up  the  book  itself  ? 
For  you,  my  darling,  the  illusions  of  love  are  possible ;  for 
me,  only  the  facts  of  homely  life  remain.  Yes,  your  love 
seems  to  me  a  dream  i 

Therefore  I  find  it  hard  to  understand  why  you  are  de- 
termined to  throw  so  much  romance  over  it.  Your  ideal 
man  must  have  more  soul  than  fire,  more  nobility  and  self- 
command  than  passion.  You  persist  in  trying  to  clothe  in 
living  form  the  dream  of  a  girl  on  the  threshold  of  life; 
you  demand  sacrifices  for  the  pleasure  of  rewarding  them; 
you  submit  your  Felipe  to  tests  in  order  to  ascertain 
whether  desire,  hope,  and  curiosity  are  enduring  in  their 
nature.  But,  child,  behind  all  your  fantastic  stage  scen- 
ery rises  the  altar,  where  everlasting  bonds  are  forged. 
The  very  morrow  of  your  marriage  the  graceful  structure 
raised  by  your  subtle  strategy  may  fall  before  that  terrible 
reality  which  makes  of  a  girl  a  woman,  of  a  gallant  a  hus- 
band. Remember  that  there  is  no  exemption  for  lovers. 
For  them,  as  for  ordinary  folk  like  Louis  and  me,  there 
lurks  beneath  the  wedding  rejoicings  the  great  "Perhaps" 
of  Rabelais. 

I  do  not  blame  you,  though,  of  course,  it  was  rash,  for 
talking  with  Felipe  in  the  garden,  or  for  spending  a  night 
with  him,  you  on  your  balcony,  he  on  his  wall;  but  you 
make  a  plaything  of  life,  and  I  am  afraid  that  life  may 
some  day  turn  the  tables.  I  dare  not  give  you  the  coun- 
sel which  my  own  experience  would  suggest;  but  let  me 
repeat  once  more  from  the  seclusion  of  my  valley  that  the 
viaticum  of  married  life  lies  in  these  words — resignation 
and  self-sacrifice.  For,  spite  of  all  your  tests,  your  coyness, 


53d  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

and  your  vigilance,  I  can  see  that  marriage  will  mean  to 
you  what  it  has  been  to  me.  The  greater  the  passion,  the 
steeper  the  precipice  we  have  hewn  for  our  fall — that  is 
the  only  difference. 

Oh!  what  I  would  give  to  see  the  Baron  de  Macumer 
and  talk  with  him  for  an  hour  or  two!  Your  happiness 
lies  so  near  my  heart. 


XXVI 

LOUISE   DE   MACUMER   TO   RENEE   DE   I/ESTORADE 

March,  1825. 

FELIPE  has  carried  out,  with  a  truly  Saracenic 
generosity,  the  wishes  of  my  father  and  mother  in 
acknowledging  the  fortune  he  has  not  received  from 
me,  the  Duchess  has  become  even  more  friendly  to  me  than 
before.  She  calls  me  little  sly-boots,  little  woman  of  the 
world,  and  says  I  know  how  to  use  my  tongue. 

"But,  dear  mamma,"  I  said  to  her  the  evening  before 
the  contract  was  signed,  "you  attribute  to  cunning  and 
smartness  on  my  part  what  is  really  the  outcome  of  the 
truest,  simplest,  most  unselfish,  most  devoted  love  that 
ever  was!  I  assure  you  that  I  am  not  at  all  the  'woman 
of  the  world'  you  do  me  the  honor  of  believing  me  to  be." 

"Come,  come,  Armande, "  she  said,  putting  her  arm  on 
my  neck  and  drawing  me  to  her,  in  order  to  kiss  my  fore- 
head, "you  did  not  want  to  go  back  to  the  convent,  you  did 
not  want  to  die  an  old  maid,  and,  like  a  fine,  noble-hearted 
Chaulieu,  as  you  are,  you  recognized  the  necessity  of  build- 
ing up  your  father's  family.  (The  Duke  was  listening.  If 
you  knew,  Een^e,  what  flattery  lies  for  him  in  these  words.) 
I  have  watched  you  during  a  whole  winter,  poking  your 
little  nose  into  all  that  goes  on,  forming  very  sensible 
opinions  about  men  and  the  present  state  of  society  in 
France.  And  you  have  picked  out  the  -one  Spaniard 
capable  of  giving  you  the  splendid  position  of  a  woman 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  537 

who  reigns  supreme  in  her  own  house.  My  dear  little 
girl,  you  treated  him  exactly  as  Tullia  treats  your 
brother." 

"What  lessons  they  give  in  my  sister's  convent!"  ex- 
claimed my  father. 

A  glance  at  my  father  cut  him  short  at  once;  then, 
turning  to  the  Duchess,  I  said: 

"Madame,  I  love  my  future  husband,  Felipe  de  Soria, 
with  all  the  strength  of  my  soul.  Although  this  love 
sprang  up  without  my  knowledge,  and  though  I  fought  it 
stoutly  when  it  first  made  itself  felt,  I  swear  to  you  that  I 
never  gave  way  to  it  till  I  had  recognized  in  the  Baron  de 
Macumer  a  character  worthy  of  mine,  a  heart  of  which  the 
delicacy,  the  generosity,  the  devotion,  and  the  temper  are 
suited  to  my  own." 

"But,  my  dear,"  she  began,  interrupting  me,  "he  is  as 
ugly  as  .  .  ." 

"As  anything  you  like,"  I  retorted  quickly,  "but  I  love 
his  ugliness." 

"If  you  love  him,  Armande,"  said  my  father,  "and  have 
the  strength  to  master  your  love,  you  must  not  risk  your  hap- 
piness. Now,  happiness  in  marriage  depends  largely  on  the 
first  days — " 

"Days  only?"  interrupted  my  mother.  Then,  with  a 
glance  at  my  father,  she  continued,  "You  had  better 
leave  us,  my  dear,  to  have  our  talk  together. 

"You  are  to  be  married,  dear  child,"  the  Duchess  then 
began  in  a  low  voice,  "in  three  days.  It  becomes  my 
duty,  therefore,  without  silly  whimpering,  which  would  be 
unfitting  our  rank  in  life,  to  give  you  the  serious  advice 
which  every  mother  owes  to  her  daughter.  You  are  mar- 
rying a  man  whom  you  love,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  I 
should  pity  you  or  myself.  I  have  only  known  you  for  a 
year;  and  if  this  period  has  been  long  enough  for  me  to 
learn  to  love  you,  it  is  hardly  sufficient  to  justify  floods  of 
tears  at  the  idea  of  losing  you.  Your  mental  gifts  are 
even  more  remarkable  than  those  of  your  person;  you 


538  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

have  gratified  maternal  pride,  and  have  shown  yourself  a 
sweet  and  loving  daughter.  I,  in  my  turn,  can  promise 
vou  that  you  will  always  find  a  stanch  friend  in  your 
mother.  You  smile?  Alas!  it  too  often  happens  that  a 
mother  who  has  lived  on  excellent  terms  with  her  daugh- 
ter, so  long  as  the  daughter  is  a  mere  girl,  comes  to  cross 
purposes  with  her  when  they  are  both  women  together. 

"It  is  your  happiness  which  I  want,  so  listen  to  rny 
words.  The  love  which  you  now  feel  is  that  of  a  young 
girl,  and  is  natural  to  us  all,  for  it  is  woman's  destiny  to 
cling  to  a  man.  Unhappily,  pretty  one,  there  is  but  one 
man  in  the  world  for  a  woman !  And  sometimes  this  man, 
whom  fate  has  marked  out  for  us,  is  not  the  one  whom  we, 
mistaking  a  passing  fancy  for  love,  choose  as  husband. 
Strange  as  what  I  say  may  appear  to  you,  it  is  worth 
noting.  If  we  cannot  love  the  man  we  have  chosen,  the 
fault  is  not  exclusively  ours,  it  lies  with  both,  or  some- 
times with  circumstances  over  which  we  have  no  control. 
Yet  there  is  no  reason  why  the  man  chosen  for  us  by  our 
family,  the  man  to  whom  our  fancy  has  gone  out,  should 
not  be  the  man  whom  we  can  love.  The  barriers  which 
arise  later  between  husband  and  wife  are  often  due  to  lack 
of  perseverance  on  both  sides.  The  task  of  transforming 
a  husband  into  a  lover  is  not  less  delicate  than  that  other 
task  of  making  a  husband  of  the  lover,  in  which  you  have 
just  proved  yourself  marvellously  successful. 

"I  repeat  it,  your  happiness  is  my  object.  Never  allow 
yourself,  then,  to  forget  that  the  first  three  months  of  your 
married  life  may  work  your  misery  if  you  do  not  submit  to 
the  yoke  with  the  same  forbearance,  tenderness,  and  intel- 
ligence that  you  have  shown  during  the  days  of  courtship. 
For,  my  little  rogue,  you  know  very  well  that  you  have 
indulged  in  all  the  innocent  pleasures  of  a  clandestine  love 
affair.  If  the  culmination  of  your  love  begins  with  disap- 
pointment, dislike,  nay,  even  with  pain,  well,  come  and 
tell  me  about  it.  Don't  hope  for  too  much  from  marriage 
at  first;  it  will  perhaps  give  you  more  discomfort  than  joy. 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  539 

The  happiness  of  your  life  requires  at  least  as  patient  cher- 
ishing as  the  early  shoots  of  love. 

"To  conclude,  if  by  chance  you  should  lose  the  lover, 
you  will  find  in  his  place  the  father  of  your  children.  In 
this,  my  dear  child,  lies  the  whole  secret  of  social  life. 
Sacrifice  everything  to  the  man  whose  name  you  bear,  the 
man  whose  honor  and  reputation  cannot  suffer  in  the  least 
degree  without  involving  you  in  frightful  consequences. 
Such  sacrifice  is  thus  not  only  an  absolute  duty  for  women 
of  our  rank,  it  is  also  their  wisest  policy.  This,  indeed,  is 
the  distinctive  mark  of  great  moral  principles,  that  they 
hold  good  and  are  expedient  from  whatever  aspect  they 
are  viewed.  But  I  need  say  no  more  to  you  on  this  point: 

"I  fancy  you  are  of  a  jealous  disposition,  and,  my  dear, 
if  you  knew  how  jealous  I  am !  But  you  must  not  be  stupid 
over  it.  To  publish  your  jealousy  to  the  world  is  like  play- 
ing at  politics  with  your  cards  upon  the  table,  and  those 
who  let  their  own  game  be  seen  learn  nothing  of  their  op- 
ponents'. Whatever  happens,  we  must  know  how  to  suffer 
in  silence." 

She  added  that  she  intended  having  some  plain  talk  about 
me  with  Macumer  the  evening  before  the  wedding. 

Raising  my  mother's  beautiful  arm,  I  kissed  her  hand  and 
dropped  on  it  a  tear,  which  the  tone  of  real  feeling  in  her 
voice  had  brought  to  my  eyes.  In  the  advice  she  had  given 
me,  I  read  high  principle  worthy  of  herself  and  of  me,  true 
wisdom,  and  a  tenderness  of  heart  unspoiled  by  the  narrow 
code  of  society.  Above  all,  I  saw  that  she  understood  my 
character.  These  few  simple  words  summed  up  the  lessons 
which  life  and  experience  had  brought  her,  perhaps  at  a 
heavy  price.  She  was  moved,  and  said,  as  she  looked 
at  me: 

"Dear  little  girl,  you've  got  a  nasty  crossing  before  you. 
And  most  women,  in  their  ignorance  or  their  disenchantment, 
are  as  wise  as  the  Earl  of  Westmoreland!" 

We  both  laughed;  but  I  must  explain  the  joke.  The 
evening  before,  a  Russian  princess  had  told  us  an  anecdote 


540  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

of  this  gentleman.  He  had  suffered  frightfully  from  sea- 
sickness in  crossing  the  Channel,  and  turned  tail  when  he 
got  near  Italy,  because  he  heard  some  one  speak  of  "cross- 
ing" the  Alps.  "Thank  you;  I've  had  quite  enough  cross- 
ings already,"  he  said. 

You  will  understand,  Rende,  that  your  gloomy  philosophy 
and  my  mother's  lecture  were  calculated  to  revive  the  fears 
which  used  to  disturb  us  at  Blois.  The  nearer  marriage 
approached,  the  more  did  I  need  to  summon  all  my  strength, 
my  resolution,  and  my  affection  to  face  this  terrible  passage 
from  maidenhood  to  womanhood.  All  our  conversations 
came  back  to  my  mind,  I  re-read  your  letters  and  discerned 
•in  them  a  vague  undertone  of  sadness. 

This  anxiety  had  one  advantage  at  least;  it  helped  me  to 
the  regulation  expression  for  a  bride  as  commonly  depicted. 
The  consequence  was  that  on  the  day  of  signing  the  contract 
everybody  said  I  looked  charming  and  quite  the  right  thing. 
This  morning,  at  the  Mairie,  it  was  an  informal  business,  and 
only  the  witnesses  were  present. 

I  am  writing  this  tail  to  my  letter  while  the}7  are  putting 
out  my  dress  for  dinner.  We  shall  be  married  at  midnight 
at  the  Church  of  Sainte-Valere,  after  a  very  gay  evening. 
I  confess  that  my  fears  give  me  a  martyr-like  and  modest  air 
to  which  I  have  no  right,  but  which  will  be  admired — why. 
I  cannot  conceive.  I  am  delighted  to  see  that  poor  Felipe 
is  every  whit  as  timorous  as  I  am;  society  grates  on  him,  he 
is  like  a  bat  in  a  glass  shop. 

"Thank  Heaven,  the  day  won't  last  forever!"  he  whis- 
pered to  me  in  all  innocence. 

In  his  bashfulness  and  timidity  he  would  have  liked  to 
have  no  one  there. 

The  Sardinian  ambassador,  when  he  came  to  sign  the 
contract,  took  me  aside  in  order  to  present  me  with  a  pearl 
necklace,  linked  together  by  six  splendid  diamonds — a  gift 
from  my  sister-in-law,  the  Duchesse  de  Soria.  Along  with 
the  necklace  was  a  sapphire  bracelet,  on  the  under  side  of 
which  were  engraved  the  words,  "Though  unknown,  beloved.'1 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  541 

Two  charming  letters  came  with  these  presents,  which,  how- 
ever, I  would  not  accept  without  consulting  Felipe. 

"For,"  I  said,  "I  should  not  like  to  see  you  wearing 
ornaments  that  came  from  any  one  but  me." 

He  kissed  my  hand,  quite  moved,  and  replied: 
"Wear  them  for  the  sake  of  the  inscription,  and  also  for 
the  kind  feeling,  which  is  sincere. ' ' 

Saturday  evening. 

HERE,  then,  my  poor  Kene*e,  are  the  last  words  of  your 
girl  friend.  After  the  midnight  Mass,  we  set  off  for  an 
estate  which  Felipe,  with  kind  thought  for  me,  has  bought 
in  Nivernais,  on  the  way  to  Provence.  Already  my  name  is 
Louise  de  Macumer,  but  I  leave  Paris  in  a  few  hours  as  Louise 
de  Chaulieu.  However  I  am  called,  there  will  never  be  for 
you  but  one  Louise. 


XXYII 

THE   SAME   TO   THE    SAME 

October,  1825. 

/HA  VE  NOT  written  to  you,  dear,  since  our  marriage, 
nearly  eight  months  ago.  And  not  a  line  from  you ! 
Madame,  you  are  inexcusable. 

To  begin  with,  we  set  off  in  a  post-chaise  for  the  Castle 
of  Chantepleurs,  the  property  which  Macumer  has  bought 
in  Nivernais.  It  stands  on  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  sixty 
leagues  from  Paris.  Our  servants,  with  the  exception  of  my 
maid,  were  there  before  us,  and  we  arrived,  after  a  very  rapid 
journey,  the  next  evening.  I  slept  all  the  way  from  Paris 
to  beyond  Montargis.  My  lord. and  master  put  his  arm  round 
me  and  pillowed  my  head  on  his  shoulder,  upon  an  arrange- 
ment of  handkerchiefs.  This  was  the  one  liberty  he  took; 
and  the  almost  motlierly  tenderness  which  got  the  better  of 
his  drowsiness,  touched  me  strangely.  I  fell  asleep  then 
under  the  fire  of  his  eyes,  and  awoke  to  find  them  still  blaz- 
ing; the  passionate  gaze  remained  unchanged,  but  what 


542  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

thoughts  had  come  and  gone  meanwhile!  Twice  he  had 
kissed  me  on  the  forehead. 

At  Briare  we  had  breakfast  in  the  carriage.  Then  fol- 
lowed a  talk  like  our  old  talks  at  Blois,  while  the  same  Loire 
we  used  to  admire  called  forth  our  praises,  and  at  half -past 
seven  we  entered  the  noble  long  avenue  of  lime-trees,  acacias, 
sycamores,  and  larches  which  leads  to  Chantepleurs.  At 
eight  we  dined;  at  ten  we  were  in  our  bedroomr  a  charming 
Gothic  room,  made  comfortable  with  every  modern  luxury. 
Felipe,  who  is  thought  so  ugly,  seemed  to  me  quite  beautiful 
in  his  graceful  kindness  and  the  exquisite  delicacy  of  his 
affection.  Of  passion,  not  a  trace.  All  through  the  journey 
he  might  have  been  an  old  friend  of  fifteen  years'  standing. 
Later,  he  has  described  to  me,  with  all  the  vivid  touches  of 
his  first  letter,  the  furious  storms  that  raged  within  and  were 
not  allowed  to  ruffle  the  outer  surface. 

"So  far,  I  have  found  nothing  very  terrible  in  marriage," 
I  said,  as  I  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out  on  the 
glorious  moon  which  lighted  up  a  charming  park,  breathing 
of  heavy  scents. 

He  drew  near,  put  his  arm  again  round  me,  and  said: 

"Why  fear  it ?  Have  I  ever  yet  proved  false  to  my  prom- 
ise in  gesture  or  look  ?  Why  should  I  be  false  in  the  future  ? ' ' 

Yet  never  were  words  or  glances  more  full  of  mastery ; 
his  voice  thrilled  every  fibre  of  my  heart  and  roused  a  sleep- 
ing force;  his  eyes  were  like  the  sun  in  power. 

"Oh!"  I  exclaimed,  "what  a  world  of  Moorish  perfidy  in 
this  attitude  of  perpetual  prostration!" 

He  understood,  my  dear. 

So,  my  fair  sweetheart,  if  I  have  let  months  slip  by  with- 
out writing,  you  can  now  divine  the  cause.  I  have  to  recall 
the  girl's  strange  past  in  order  to  explain  the  woman  to  my- 
self. Rene'e,  I  understand  you  now.  Not  to  her  dearest 
friend,  not  to  her  mother,  not,  perhaps,  even  to  herself,  can 
a  happy  bride  speak  of  her  happiness.  This  memory  ought 
to  remain  absolutely  our  own,  an  added  rapture — a  thing 
beyond  words,  too  sacred  for  disclosure  1 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  543 

Is  it  possible  that  the  name  of  duty  has  been  given  to  the 
delicious  frenzy  of  the  heart,  to  the  overwhelming  rush  of 
passion?  And  for  what  purpose?  What  malevolent  power 
conceived  the  idea  of  crushing  a  woman's  sensitive  delicacy 
and  all  the  thousand  wiles  of  her  modesty  under  the  fetters 
of  constraint?  What  sense  of  duty  can  force  from  her  these 
flowers  of  the  heart,  the  roses  of  life,  the  passionate  poetry 
of  her  nature,  apart  from  love?  To  claim  feeling  as  a  right! 
Why,  it  blooms  of  itself  under  the  sun  of  love,  and  shrivels 
to  death  under  the  cold  blast  of  distaste  and  aversion!  Let 
love  guard  his  own  rights! 

Oh !  my  noble  Rene'e !  I  understand  you  now.  I  bow  to 
your  greatness,  amazed  at  the  depth  and  clearness  of  your 
insight.  Yes,  the  woman  who  has  not  used  the  marriage 
ceremony,  as  I  have  done,  merely  to  legalize  and  publish  the 
secret  election  of  her  heart,  has  nothing  left  but  to  fly  to 
motherhood.  When  earth  fails,  the  soul  makes  for  heaven! 

One  hard  truth  emerges  from  all  that  you  have  said. 
Only  men  who  are  really  great  know  how  to  love,  and  now 
I  understand  the  reason  of  this.  Man  obeys  two  forces — one 
sensual;  one  spiritual.  Weak  or  inferior  men  mistake  the 
first  for  the  last,  while  great  souls  know  how  to  clothe  the 
merely  natural  instinct  in  all  the  graces  of  the  spirit.  The 
very  strength  of  this  spiritual  passion  imposes  severe  self- 
restraint  and  inspires  them  with  reverence  for  women. 
Clearly,  feeling  is  sensitive  in  proportion  to  the  calibre  of 
the  mental  powers  generally,  and  this  is  why  the  man  of  genius 
alone  has  something  of  a  woman's  delicacy.  He  understands 
and  divines  woman,  and  the  wings  of  passion  on  which  he 
raises  her  are  restrained  by  the  timidity  of  the  sensitive  spirit. 
But  when  the  mind,  the  heart,  and  the  senses  all  have  their 
share  in  the  rapture  which  transports  us — ah !  then  there  is 
no  falling  to  earth ,  rather  it  is  to  heaven  we  soar,  alas !  for 
only  too  brief  a  visit. 

Such,  dear  soul,  is  the  philosophy  of  the  first  three 
months  of  my  married  life.  Felipe  is  angelic.  Without 
figure  of  speech,  he  is  another  self,  and  I  can  think  aloud 


544  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

with  him.  His  greatness  of  soul  passes  my  comprehension. 
Possession  only  attaches  him  more  closely  to  me,  and  he  dis- 
covers in  his  happiness  new  motives  for  loving  me.  For 
him,  I  am  the  nobler  part  of  himself.  I  can  foresee  that 
years  of  wedded  life,  far  from  impairing  his  affection,  will 
only  make  it  more  assured,  develop  fresh  possibilities  of 
enjoyment,  and  fing  us  in  more  perfect  sympathy.  What 
a  delirium  of  joy! 

It  is  part  of  my  nature  that  pleasure  has  an  exhilarating 
effect  on  me;  it  leaves  sunshine  behind,  and  becomes  a  part 
of  my  inner  being.  The  interval  which  parts  one  ecstasy 
from  another  is  like  the  short  night  which  marks  off  our 
long  summer  days.  The  sun  which  flushed  the  mountain 
tops  with  warmth  in  setting  finds  them  hardly  cold  when  it 
rises.  "What  happy  chance  has  given  me  such  a  destiny? 
My  mother  had  roused  a  host  of  fears  in  me;  her  forecast, 
which,  though  free  from  the  alloy  of  vulgar  pettiness,  seemed 
to  me  redolent  of  jealousy,  has  been  falsified  by  the  event. 
Your  fears  and  hers,  my  own — all  have  vanished  in  thin  air! 

We  remained  at  Chantepleurs  seven  months  and  a  half, 
for  all  the  world  like  a  couple  of  runaway  lovers  fleeing  the 
parental  wrath,  while  the  roses  of  pleasure  crowned  our  love 
and  embellished  our  dual  solitude.  One  morning,  when  I 
was  even  happier  than  usual,  I  began  to  muse  over  my  lot, 
and  suddenly  Renee  and  her  prosaic  marriage  flashed  into  my 
mind.  It  seemed  to  me  that  now  I  could  grasp  the  inner 
meaning  of  your  life.  Oh!  my  sweet,  why  do  we  speak  a 
different  tongue?  Your  marriage  of  convenience  and  my 
love  match  are  two  worlds,  as  widely  separated  as  the  finite 
from  infinity.  You  still  walk  the  earth,  while  I  range  the 
heavens !  Your  sphere  is  human,  mine  divine !  Love  crowned 
me  queen,  you  reign  by  reason  and  duty.  So  lofty  are  the 
regions  where  I  soar,  that  a  fall  would  shiver  me  to  atoms. 

But  no  more  of  this.  I  shrink  from  painting  to  you  the 
rainbow  brightness,  the  profusion,  the  exuberant  joy  of 
love's  springtime,  as  we  know  it. 

For  ten  days  we  have  been  in  Paris,  staying  in  a  charrn- 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  545 

ing  house  in  the  Eue  du  Bac,  prepared  for  us  by  the  archi- 
tect to  whom  Felipe  intrusted  the  decoration  of  Chantepleurs. 
I  have  been  listening,  in  all  the  full  content  of  an  assured  and 
sanctioned  love,  to  that  divine  music  of  Rossini's,  which 
used  to  soothe  me  when,  as  a  restless  girl,  I  hungered 
vaguely  after  experience.  They  say  I  am  more  beautiful, 
and  I  have  a  childish  pleasure  in  hearing  myself  called 
"Madame." 

Friday  morning. 

RENEE,  my  fair  saint,  the  happiness  of  my  own  life  pulls 
me  forever  back  to  you.  I  feel  that  I  can  be  more  to  you 
than  ever  before,  you  are  so  dear  to  me!  I  have  studied  your 
wedded  life  closely  in  the  light  of  my  own  opening  chapters; 
and  you  seem  to  me  to  come  out  of  the  scrutiny  so  great,  so 
noble,  so  splendid  in  your  goodness,  that  I  here  declare  my- 
self your  inferior  and  humble  admirer,  as  well  as  your  friend. 
When  I  think  what  marriage  has  been  to  me,  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  should  have  died,  had  it  turned  out  otherwise.  And 
you  live !  Tell  me  what  your  heart  feeds  on !  Never  again 
shall  I  make  fun  of  you.  Mockery,  my  sweet,  is  the  child 
of  ignorance;  we  jest  at  what  we  know  nothing  of.  "Recruits 
will  laugh  where  the  veteran  soldier  looks  grave,"  was  a 
remark  made  to  me  by  the  Comte  de  Chaulieu,  that  poor 
cavalry  officer  whose  campaigning  so  far  has  consisted  in 
marches  from  Paris  to  Fontainebleau  and  back  again. 

I  surmise,  too,  my  dear  love,  that  you  have  not  told  me 
all.  There  are  wounds  which  you  have  hidden.  You  suffer; 
I  am  convinced  of  it.  In  trying  to  make  out  at  this  distance 
and  from  the  scraps  you  tell  me  the  reasons  of  your  conduct, 
I  have  weaved  together  all  sorts  of  romantic  theories  about 
you.  "She  has  made  a  mere  experiment  in  marriage,"  I 
thought  one  evening,  "and  what  is  happiness  for  me  has 
proved  only  suffering  to  her.  Her  sacrifice  is  barren  of 
reward,  and  she  would  not  make  it  greater  than  need  be. 
The  unctuous  axioms  of  social  morality  are  only  used  to  cloak 
her  disappointment."  Ah!  Rene'e,  the  best  of  happiness  is 
that  it  needs  no  dogma  and  no  fine  words  to  pave  the  way ; 


646  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

it  speaks  for  itself,  while  theory  has  been  piled  upon  theory 
to  justify  the  system  of  woman's  vassalage  and  thraldom. 
If  self-denial  be  so  noble,  so  sublime,  what,  pray,  of  my  joy, 
sheltered  by  the  gold-and-white  canopy  of  the  church,  and 
witnessed  by  the  hand  and  seal  of  the  most  sour-faced  of 
mayors?  Is  it  a  thing  out  of  nature? 

For  the  honor  of  the  law,  for  her  own  sake,  but  most  of 
all  to  make  my  happiness  complete,  I  long  to  see  my  Benee 
content.  Oh!  tell  me  that  you  see  a  dawn  of  love  for  this 
Louis  who  adores  you!  Tell  me  that  the  solemn,  symbolic 
torch  of  Hymen  has  not  alone  served  to  lighten  your  dark- 
ness, but  that  love,  the  glorious  sun  of  our  hearts,  pours  his 
rays  on  you.  I  come  back  always,  you  see,  to  this  midday 
blaze,  which  will  be  my  destruction,  I  fear. 

Dear  Rende,  do  you  remember  how,  in  your  outbursts  of 
girlish  devotion,  you  would  say  to  me,  as  we  sat  under  the 
vine-covered  arbor  of  the  convent  garden,  "I  love  you  so, 
Louise,  that  if  God  appeared  to  me  in  a  vision,  I  would  pray 
Him  that  all  the  sorrows  of  life  might  be  mine,  and  all  the 
joy  yours.  I  burn  to  suffer  for  you?"  Now,  darling,  the 
day  has  come  when  I  take  up  your  prayer,  imploring  Heaven 
to  grant  you  a  share  in  my  happiness. 

I  must  tell  you  my  idea.  I  have  a  shrewd  notion  that 
you  are  hatching  ambitious  plans  under  the  name  of  Louis 
de  1'Estorade.  Very  good;  get  him  elected  deputy  at  the 
approaching  election,  for  he  will  be  very  nearly  forty  then; 
and  as  the  Chamber  does  not  meet  till  six  months  later,  he 
will  have  just  attained  the  age  necessary  to  qualify  for  a  seat. 
You  will  come  to  Paris — there,  isn't  that  enough  ?  My 
father,  and  the  friends  I  shall  have  made  by  that  time,  will 
learn  to  know  and  admire  you;  and  if  your  father-in-law  will 
agree  to  found  a  family,  we  will  get  the  title  of  Comte  for 
Louis.  That  is  something  at  least!  And  we  shall  be 
together. 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  647 


XXVIII 

RENEE    DE   I/ESTORADE   TO   LOUISE   DE   MACUMER 

December,  1825. 

7j  /T~Y  THRICE  happy  Louise,  your  letter  made  me 
/\/I  dizzy.  For  a  few  moments  I  held  it  in  my  listless 
hands,  while  a  tear  or  two  sparkled  on  it  in  the 
setting  sun.  I  was  alone  beneath  the  small  barren  rock 
where  I  have  had  a  seat  placed;  far  off,  like  a  lance  of  steel, 
the  Mediterranean  shone.  The  seat  is  shaded  by  aromatic 
shrubs,  and  I  have  had  a  very  large  jessamine,  some  honey- 
suckle, and  Spanish  brooms  transplanted  there,  so  that  some 
day  the  rock  will  be  entirely  covered  with  climbing  plants. 
The  wild  vine  has  already  taken  root  there.  But  winter 
draws  near,  and  all  this  greenery  is  faded  like  a  piece  of  old 
tapestry.  In  this  spot  I  am  never  molested ;  it  is  understood 
that  here  I  wish  to  be  alone.  It  is  named  Louise's  seat — a 
proof,  is  it  not,  that  even  in  solitude  I  am  not  alone  here? 

If  I  tell  you  all  these  details,  to  you  so  paltry,  and  try 
to  describe  the  vision  of  green  with  which  my  prophetic  gaze 
clothes  this  bare  rock — on  whose  top  some  freak  of  nature 
has  set  up  a  magnificent  parasol  pine — it  is  because  in  all  this 
I  have  found  an  emblem  to  which  I  cling. 

It  was  while  your  blessed  lot  was  filling  me  with  joy  and 
— must  I  confess  it? — with  bitter  envy  too,  that  I  felt  the 
first  movement  of  my  child  within,  and  this  mystery  of  phys- 
ical life  reacted  upon  the  inner  recesses  of  my  soul.  This 
indefinable  sensation,  which  partakes  of  the  nature  at  once 
of  a  warning,  a  delight,  a  pain,  a  promise,  and  a  fulfilment; 
this  joy,  which  is  mine  alone,  unshared  by  mortal,  this  won- 
der of  wonders,  has  whispered  to  me  that  one  day  this  rock 
shall  be  a  carpet  of  flowers,  resounding  to  the  merry  laughter 
of  children,  that  I  shall  at  last  be  blessed  among  women,  and 
from  me  shall  spring  forth  fountains  of  life.  Now  I  know 


548  BALZAC  'S    WORKS 

what  I  have  lived  for!  Thus  the  first  certainty  of  bearing 
within  me  another  life  brought  healing  to  my  wounds.  A 
joy  that  beggars  description  has  crowned  for  me  those  long 
days  of  sacrifice,  in  which  Louis  had  already  found  his. 

Sacrifice!  I  said  to  myself,  how  far  does  it  excel  passion! 
What  pleasure  has  roots  so  deep  as  one  which  is  not  personal 
but  creative  ?  Is  not  the  spirit  of  Sacrifice  a  power  mightier 
than  any  of  its  results  ?  Is  it  not  that  mysterious,  tireless 
divinity,  who  hides  beneath  innumerable  spheres  in  an  un- 
explored centre,  through  which  all  worlds  in  turn  must  pass  ? 
Sacrifice,  solitary  and  secret,  rich  in  pleasures  only  tasted  in 
silence,  which  none  can  guess  at,  and  no  profane  eye  has 
ever  seen;  Sacrifice,  jealous  God  and  tyrant,  God  of  strength 
and  victory,  exhaustless  spring  which,  partaking  of  the  very 
essence  of  all  that  exists,  can  by  no  expenditure  be  drained 
below  its  own  level — Sacrifice,  there  is  the  keynote  of  my  life. 

For  you,  Louise,  love  is  but  the  reflex  of  Felipe's  passion; 
the  life  which  I  shed  upon  my  little  ones  will  come  back  to 
me  in  ever-growing  fulness.  The  plenty  of  your  golden 
harvest  will  pass;  mine,  though  late,  will  be  but  the  more 
enduring,  for  each  hour  will  see  it  renewed.  Love  may  be 
the  fairest  gem  which  Society  has  filched  from  Nature;  but 
what  is  motherhood  save  Nature  in  her  most  gladsome  mood  ? 
A  smile  has  dried  my  tears.  Love  makes  my  Louis  happy, 
but  marriage  has  made  me  a  mother,  and  who  shall  say  I  am 
not  happy  also  ? 

With  slow  steps,  then,  I  returned  to  my  white  grange, 
with  its  green  shutters,  to  write  you  these  thoughts. 

So  it  is,  darling,  that  the  most  marvellous,  and  yet  the 
simplest,  process  of  nature  has  been  going  on  in  me  for  five 
months;  and  yet — in  your  ear  let  me  whisper  it — so  far  it 
agitates  neither  my  heart  nor  my  understanding.  I  see  all 
around  me  happy;  the  grandfather-to-be  has  become  a  child 
again,  trespassing  on  the  grandchild's  place;  the  father  wears 
a'grave  and  anxious  look;  they  are  all  most  attentive  to  me, 
all  talk  of  the  joy  of  being  a  mother.  Alas!  I  alone  remain 
cold,  and  I  dare  not  tell  you  how  dead  I  am  to  all  emotion, 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  549 

though  I  affect  a  little  in  order  not  to  damp  the  general  satis- 
faction. But  with  you  I  may  be  frank;  and  I  confess  that, 
at  my  present  stage,  motherhood  is  a  mere  affair  of  the 
imagination. 

Louis  was  to  the  full  as  much  surprised  as  I.  Does  not 
this  show  how  little,  unless  by  his  impatient  wishes,  the 
father  counts  for  in  this  matter  ?  Chance,  my  dear,  is  the 
sovereign  deity  in  child-bearing.  My  doctor,  while  main- 
taining that  this  chance  works  in  harmony  with  nature,  does 
not  den}7"  that  children  who  are  the  fruit  of  passionate  love 
are  bound  to  be  richly  endowed  both  physically  and  men- 
tally, and  that  often  the  happiness  which  shone  like  a  radiant 
star  over  their  birth  seems  to  watch  over  them  through  life. 
It  may  be  then,  Louise,  that  motherhood  reserves  joys  for 
you  which  I  shall  never  know.  It  may  be  that  the  feeling 
of  a  mother  for  the  child  of  a  man  whom  she  adores,  as  you 
adore  Felipe,  is  different  from  that  with  which  she  regards 
the  offspring  of  reason,  duty,  and  desperation! 

Thoughts  such  as  these,  which  I  bury  in  my  inmost  heart, 
add  to  the  preoccupation  only  natural  to  a  woman  soon  to  be 
a  mother.  And  yet,  as  the  family  cannot  exist  without  chil- 
dren, I  long  to  speed  the  moment  from  which  the  joys  of 
family,  where  alone  I  am  to  find  my  life,  shall  date  their 
beginning.  At  present  I  live  a  life  all  expectation  and  mys- 
tery, except  for  a  sickening  physical  discomfort,  which  no 
doubt  serves  to  prepare  a  woman  for  suffering  of  a  different 
kind.  I  watch  my  symptoms;  and  in  spite  of  the  attentions 
and  thoughtful  care  with  which  Louis's  anxiety  surrounds 
me,  I  am  conscious  of  a  vague  uneasiness,  mingled  with  the 
nausea,  the  distaste  for  food,  and  abnormal  longings  common 
to  my  condition.  If  I  am  to  speak  candidly,  I  must  confess, 
at  the  risk  of  disgusting  you  with  the  whole  business,  to  an 
incomprehensible  craving  for  rotten  fruit.  My  husband  goes 
to  Marseilles  to  fetch  the  finest  oranges  the  world  produces — 
from  Malta,  Portugal,  Corsica — and  these  I  don't  touch. 
Then  I  hurry  there  myself,  sometimes  on  foot,  and  in  a  little 
back  street,  running  down  to  the  harbor,  close  to  the  Town 


550  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Hall,  I  find  wretched,  half -putrid  oranges,  two  for  a  sou; 
which  I  devour  eagerly.  The  bluish,  greenish  shades  on 
the  mouldy  parts  sparkle  like  diamonds  in  my  eyes,  they  are 
flowers  to  me;  I  forget  the  putrid  odor,  and  find  them  deli- 
cious, with  a  piquant  flavor,  and  stimulating  as  wine.  My 
dear,  they  are  the  first  love  of  my  life!  Your  passion  for 
Felipe  is  nothing  to  this!  Sometimes  I  even  slip  out  secretly 
and  fly  to  Marseilles,  full  of  passionate  longings,  which  grow 
more  intense  as  I  draw  near  the  street.  I  tremble  lest  the 
woman  should  be  sold  out  of  rotten  oranges;  I  pounce  on 
them  and  devour  them  as  I  stand.  It  seems  to  me  an  am- 
brosial food,  and  yet  I  have  seen  Louis  turn  aside,  unable 
to  bear  the  smell.  Then  came  to  my  mind  the  ghastly  words 
of  Obermann  in  his  gloomy  elegy,  which  I  wish  I  had  never 
read,  "Boots  slake  their  thirst  in  foulest  streams."  Since 
I  took  to  this  diet,  the  sickness  has  ceased,  and  I  feel  much 
stronger.  This  depravity  of  taste  must  have  a  meaning,  for 
it  seems  to  be  part  of  a  natural  process  and  to  be  common  to 
most  women,  sometimes  going  to  most  extravagant  lengths. 

When  my  situation  is  more  marked,  I  shall  not  go  beyond 
the  grounds,  for  I  should  not  like  to  be  seen  under  these  cir- 
cumstances. I  have  the  greatest  curiosity  to  know  at  what 
precise  moment  the  sense  of  motherhood  begins.  It  cannot 
possibly  be  in  the  midst  of  frightful  suffering,  the  very- 
thought  of  which  makes  me  shudder. 

Farewell,  favorite  of  fortune!  Farewell,  my  friend,  in 
whom  I  live  again,  and  through  whom  I  am  able  to  picture 
to  myself  this  brave  love,  this  jealousy  all  on  fire  at  a  look, 
these  whisperings  in  the  ear,  these  joys  which  create  for 
women,  as  it  were,  a  new  atmosphere,  a  new  daylight,  fresh 
life!  Ah!  pet,  I  too  understand  love.  Don't  weary  of  tell- 
ing me  everything.  Keep  faithful  to  our  bond.  I  promise, 
in  my  turn,  to  spare  you  nothing. 

Nay — to  conclude  in  all  seriousness — I  will  not  conceal 
from  you  that,  on  reading  your  letter  a  second  time,  I  was 
seized  with  a  dread  which  I  could  not  shake  off.  This  superb 
love  seems  like  a  challenge  to  Providence.  Will  not  the 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  551 

sovereign  master  of  this  earth,  Calamity,  take  umbrage  if  no 
place  be  left  for  him  at  your  feast?  What  mighty  edifice 
of  fortune  has  he  not  overthrown  ?  Oh !  Louise,  forget  not, 
in  all  this  happiness,  your  prayers  to  God.  Do  good,  be  kind 
and  merciful;  let  your  moderation,  if  it  maybe,  avert  dis- 
aster. Religion  has  meant  much  more  to  me  since  I  left  the 
convent  and  since  my  marriage;  but  your  Paris  news  con- 
tains no  mention  of  it.  In  your  glorification  of  Felipe,  it 
seems  to  me  you  reverse  the  saying,  and  invoke  God  less 
than  His  saint. 

But,  after  all,  this  panic  is  only  excess  of  affection.  You 
go  to  church  together,  I  do  not  doubt,  and  do  good  in  secret. 
The  close  of  this  letter  will  seem  to  you  very  primitive,  I 
expect,  but  think  of  the  too  eager  friendship  which  prompts 
these  fears — a  friendship  of  the  type  of  La  Fontaine's,  which 
takes  alarm  at  dreams,  at  half-formed,  misty  ideas.  You 
deserve  to  be  happy,  since,  through  it  all,  you  still  think  of 
me,  no  less  than  I  think  of  you,  in  my  monotonous  life, 
which,  though  it  lacks  color,  is  yet  not  empty,  and,  if  un- 
eventful, is  not  unfruitful.  God  bless  you,  then! 


XXIX 

M.  DE  L'ESTORADE  TO  THE  BARONNE  DE  MACUMER 

December,  1825. 

7j    /W~ADAME — It  is  the    desire  of    my  wife    that  you 
/\/i       should  not  learn  first  from  the  formal  announce- 
ment of  an  event  which  has  filled  us  with  joy. 
Eenee  has  just  given  birth  to  a  fine  boy,  whose  baptism  we 
are  postponing  till  your  return  to  Chantepleurs.     Renee  and 
I  both  earnestly  hope  that  you  may  then  come  as  far  as  La 
Crampade,  and  will  consent  to  act  as  godmother  to  our  first- 
born.    In  this  hope,  I  have  had  him  placed  on  the  register 
under  the  name  of  Armand-Louis  de  1'Estorade. 

Our  dear  Renee  suffered  much,  but  bore  it  with  angelic 
patience.     You,  who  know  her,  will  easily  understand  that 


552  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

the  assurance  of  bringing  happiness  to  us  all  supported  her 
through  this  trying  apprenticeship  to  motherhood. 

Without  indulging  in  the  more  or  less  ludicrous  exaggera- 
tions to  which  the  novel  sensation  of  being  a  father  is  apt  to 
give  rise,  I  may  tell  you  that  little  Armand  is  a  beautiful 
infant,  and  you  will  have  no  difficulty  in  believing  it  when 
I  add  that  he  has  Renee's  features  and  eyes.  So  far,  at  least, 
this  gives  proof  of  intelligence! 

The  physician  and  accoucheur  assure  us  that  Eende  is  now 
quite  out  of  danger;  and  as  she  is  proving  an  admirable  nurse 
— Nature  has  endowed  her  so  generously ! — my  father  and  I 
are  able  to  give  free  rein  to  our  joy.  Madame,  may  I  be 
allowed  to  express  the  hope  that  this  joy,  so  vivid  and  in- 
tense, which  has  brought  fresh  life  into  our  house,  and  has 
changed  the  face  of  existence  for  my  dear  wife,  may  ere  long 
be  yours  ? 

Kene"e  has  had  a  suite  of  rooms  prepared,  and  I  only  wish 
I  could  make  them  worthy  of  our  guests.  But  the  cordial 
friendliness  of  the  reception  which  awaits  you  may  perhaps 
atone  for  any  lack  of  splendor. 

I  have  heard  from  Rene*e,  madame,  of  your  kind  thought 
in  regard  to  us,  and  I  take  this  opportunity  of  thanking  you 
for  it,  the  more  gladly  because  nothing  could  now  be  more 
appropriate.  The  birth  of  a  grandson  has  reconciled  my 
father  to  sacrifices  which  bear  hardly  on  an  old  man.  He 
has  just  bought  two  estates,  and  La  Crampade  is  now  a 
property  with  an  annual  rental  of  thirty  thousand  francs. 
My  father  intends  asking  the  King's  permission  to  form  an 
entailed  estate  of  it;  and  if  you  are  good  enough  to  get  for 
him  the  title  of  which  you  spoke  in  your  last  letter,  you  will 
have  already  done  much  for  your  godson. 

For  my  part,  I  shall  carry  out  your  suggestion  solely  with 
the  object  of  bringing  you  and  Rene'e  together  during  the 
sessions  of  the  Chamber.  I  am  working  hard  with  the  view 
of  becoming  what  is  called  a  specialist.  But  nothing  could 
give  me  greater  encouragement  in  my  labors  than  the  thought 
that  you  will  take  an  interest  in  my  little  Armand.  Come, 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  553 

then,  we  beg  of  you,  and  with  your  beauty  and  your  grace, 
your  playful  fancy  and  your  noble  soul,  enact  the  part  of 
good  fairy  to  my  son  and  heir.     You  will  thus,  madame, 
add  undying  gratitude  to  the  respectful  regard  of 
Your   very  humble,  obedient   servant, 

LOUIS   DE   L'ESTORADE. 


XXX 

LOUISE   DE   MACUMEB  TO   REKEE   DE   L'ESTORADE 

January, 

71    /JT AGUMER    has    just   wakened   me,    darling,    with 

/y/     your  husband's  letter.     First  and  foremost — Yes. 

We  shall  be  going  to  Chantepleurs  about  the  end 

of  April.     To  me  it  will  be  a  piling  up  of  pleasure  to  travel, 

to  see  you,  and  to  be  the  godmother  of  your  first  child.     I 

must,  please,  have  Macumer  for  godfather.     To  take  part  in 

a  ceremony  of  the  Church  with  another  as  rny  partner  would 

be  hateful  to  me.     Ah!  if  you  could  see  the  look  he  gave 

me  as  I  said  this,  you  would  know  what  store  this  sweetest 

of  lovers  sets  on  his  wife! 

"I  am  the  more  bent  on  our  visiting  La  Crampade  to- 
gether, Felipe,"  I  went  on,  "because  I  might  have  a  child 
there.  I  too,  you  know,  would  be  a  mother!  .  .  .  And 
yet,  can  you  fancy  me  torn  in  two  between  you  and  the 
infant?  To  begin  with,  if  I  saw  any  creature — were  it 
even  my  own  son — taking  my  place  in  your  heart,  I 
couldn't  answer  for  the  consequences.  Medea  may  have 
been  right  after  all.  The  Greeks  had  some  good  notions!" 

And  he  laughed. 

So,  my  sweetheart,  you  have  the  fruit  without  the  flow- 
ers; I  the  flowers  without  the  fruit.  The  contrast  in  our 
lives  still  holds  good.  Between  the  two  of  us  we  have 
surely  enough  philosophy  to  find  the  moral  of  it  some  day. 
Bah!  only  ten  months  married!  Too  soon,  you  will  admit, 
to  give  up  hope. 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC — 24 


554  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

We  are  leading  a  gay,  yet  far  from  empty  life,  as  is  the 
way  with  happy  people.  The  days  are  never  long  enough 
for  us.  Society,  seeing  me  in  the  trappings  of  a  married 
woman,  pronounces  the  Baronne  de  Macumer  much  pret- 
tier than  Louise  de  Chaulieu:  a  happy  love  is  a  most  be- 
coming cosmetic.  When  Felipe  and  I  drive  along  the 
Champs  Elysees  in  the  bright  sunshine  of  a  crisp  January 
day,  beneath  the  trees,  frosted  with  clusters  of  white  stars, 
and  face  all  Paris  on  the  spot  where  last  year  we  met  with 
a  gulf  between  us,  the  contrast  calls  up  a  thousand  fancies. 
Suppose,  after  all,  your  last  letter  should  be  right  in  its 
forecast,  and  we  are  too  presumptuous! 

If  I  am  ignorant  of  a  mother's  joys,  you  shall  tell  me 
about  them;  I  will  learn  by  sympathy.  But  my  imagina- 
tion can  picture  nothing  to  equal  the  rapture  of  love.  You 
will  laugh  at  my  extravagance;  but,  I  assure  you,  that  a 
dozen  times  in  as  many  months  the  longing  has  seized  me 
to  die  at  thirty,  while  life  was  still  untarnished,  amid  the 
roses  of  love,  in  the  embrace  of  passion.  To  bid  farewell 
to  the  feast  at  its  brightest,  before  disappointment  has 
come,  having  lived  in  this  sunshine  and  celestial  air,  and 
wellnigh  spent  myself  in  love,  not  a  leaf  dropped  from 
my  crown,  not  an  illusion  perished  in  my  heart,  what  a 
dream  is  there!  Think  what  it  would  be  to  bear  about 
a  young  heart  in  an  aged  body,  to  see  only  cold,  dumb 
faces  around  me,  where  even  strangers  used  to  smile;  to 
be  a  worthy  matron !  Can  Hell  have  a  worse  torture  ? 

On  this  very  subject,  in  fact,  Felipe  and  I  have  had  our 
first  quarrel.  I  contended  that  he  ought  to  have  sufficient 
moral  strength  to  kill  me  in  my  sleep  when  I  have  reached 
thirty,  so  that  I  might  pass  from  one  dream  to  another. 
The  wretch  declined.  I  threatened  to  leave  him  alone  in 
the  world,  and,  poor  child,  he  turned  white  as  a  sheet. 
My  dear,  this  distinguished  statesman  is  neither  more  nor 
less  than  a  baby.  It  is  incredible  what  youth  and  sim- 
plicity he  contrived  to  hide  away.  Now  that  I  allow  my- 
self to  think  aloud  with  him,  as  I  do  with  you,  and  have 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  56i 

no  secrets  from  him,  we  are  always  giving  each  other 
surprises. 

Dear  Rene*e,  Felipe  and  Louise,  the  pair  of  lovers,  want 
to  send  a  present  to  the  young  mother.  We  would  like  to 
get  something  that  would  give  you  pleasure,  and  we  don't 
share  the  popular  taste  for  surprises;  so  tell  me  quite 
frankly,  please,  what  you  "would  like.  It  ought  to  be 
something  which  would  recall  us  to  you  in  a  pleasant 
way,  something  which  you  will  use  every  day,  and  which 
won't  wear  out  with  use.  The  meal  which  with  us  is  most 
cheerful  and  friendly  is  lunch,  and  therefore  the  idea  oc- 
curred to  me  of  a  special  luncheon  service,  ornamented 
with  figures  of  babies.  If  you  approve  of  this,  let  me 
know  at  once;  for  it  will  have  to  be  ordered  immediately 
if  we  are  to  bring  it.  Paris  artists  are  gentlemen,  of  far  too 
much  importance  to  be  hurried.  This  will  be  my  offering 
to  Lucina. 

Farewell,  dear  nursing-mother.  May  all  a  mother's  de- 
lights be  yours!  I  await  with  impatience  your  first  letter, 
which  will  tell  me  all  about  it,  I  hope.  Some  of  the  de- 
tails in  your  husband's  letter  went  to  my  heart.  Poor 
ReneX  a  mother  has  a  heavy  price  to  pay.  I  will  tell  my 
godson  how  dearly  he  must  love  you.  No  end  of  love, 
my  sweet  one. 


XXXI 

RENEE   DE   I/ESTORADE    TO   LOUISE   DE   MACUMER 

/T  18  NEARLY  five  months  now  since  baby  was  born, 
and  not  once,  dear  heart,  have  I  found  a  single  moment 
for  writing  to  you.     When  you  are  a  mother  yourself, 
you  will  be  more  ready  to  excuse  me  than  you  are  now;  for 
you  have  punished  me  a  little  bit  in  making  your  own  let- 
ters so  few  and  far  between.     Do  write,  my  darling!     Tell 
me  of  your  pleasures;    lay  on  the  blue  as  brightly  as  y»u 


556  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

please.  It  mil  not  hurt  me,  for  I  am  happy  now,  happier 
than  you  can  imagine. 

I  went  in  state  to  the  parish  church  to  hear  the  mass  for 
recovery  from  childbirth,  as  is  the  custom  in  the  old  fam- 
ilies of  Provence.  I  was  supported  on  either  side  by  the 
two  grandfathers — Louis's  father  and  my  own.  Never  had 
I  knelt  before  God  with  such  a  flood  of  gratitude  in  my 
heart.  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you  of,  so  many  feelings  to 
describe,  that  I  don't  know  where  to  begin;  but  from 
amid  these  confused  memories,  one  rises  distinctly,  that 
of  my  prayer  in  the  church. 

When  I  found  myself  transformed  into  a  joyful  mother, 
on  the  very  spot  where,  as  a  girl,  I  had  trembled  for  my 
future,  it  seemed  to  my  fancy  that  the  Virgin  on  the  altar 
bowed  her  head  and  pointed  to  the  infant  Christ,  who 
smiled  at  me!  My  heart  full  of  pure  and  heavenly  love, 
I  held  out  little  Armand  for  the  priest  to  bless  and  bathe, 
in  anticipation  of  the  regular  baptism  to  come  later.  But 
you  will  see  us  together  then,  Armand  and  me. 

My  child — see  how  readily  the  word  comes,  and  indeed 
there  is  none  sweeter  to  a  mother's  heart  and  mind  or  on 
her  lips — well,  then,  dear  child,  during  the  last  two  months 
I  used  to  drag  myself  wearily  and  heavily  about  the  gar- 
dens, not  realizing  yet  how  precious  was  the  burden,  spite 
of  all  the  discomforts  it  brought!  I  was  haunted  by  fore- 
bodings so  gloomy  and  ghastly,  that  they  got  the  better 
even  of  curiosity;  in  vain  did  I  reason  with  myself  that 
no  natural  function  could  be  so  very  terrible,  in  vain  did 
I  picture  the  delights  of  motherhood.  My  heart  made  no 
response  even  to  the  thought  of  the  little  one,  who  an- 
nounced himself  by  lively  kicking.  That  is  a  sensation, 
dear,  which  may  be  welcome  when  it  is  familiar;  but  as  a 
novelty,  it  is  more  strange  than  pleasing.  I  speak  for  my- 
self at  least;  you  know  1  would  never  affect  anything  I 
did  not  really  feel,  and  I  look  on  my  child  as  a  gift  straight 
from  Heaven.  For  one  who  saw  in  it  rather  the  image  of 
the  man  she  loved,  it  might  be  different. 


LETTERS    OF   TWO   BRIDES  557 

But  enough  of  such  sad  thoughts,  gone,  I  trust,  forever. 

When  the  crisis  came,  I  summoned  all  my  powers  of 
resistance,  and  braced  myself  so  well  for  suffering,  that  I 
bore  the  horrible  agony — so  they  tell  me — quite  marvel- 
lously. For  about  an  hour  I  sank  into  a  sort  of  stupor,  of 
the  nature  of  a  dream.  I  seemed  to  myself  then  two  beings 
— an  outer  covering  racked  and  tortured  by  red-hot  pincers, 
and  a  soul  at  peace.  In  this  strange  state  the  pain  formed 
itself  into  a  sort  of  halo  hovering  over  me.  A  gigantic  rose 
seemed  to  spring  out  of  my  head  and  grow  ever  larger  and 
larger,  till  it  enfolded  me  in  its  blood-red  petals.  The 
same  color  dyed  the  air  around,  and  everything  I  saw  was 
blood-red.  At  last  the  climax  came,  when  soul  and  body 
seemed  no  longer  able  to  hold  together;  the  spasms  of  pain 
gripped  me  like  death  itself.  I  screamed  aloud,  and  found 
fresh  strength  against  this  fresh  torture.  Suddenly  this 
concert  of  hideous  cries  was  overborne  by  a  joyful  sound 
— the  shrill  wail  of  the  new-born  infant.  No  words  can 
describe  that  moment.  It  was  as  though  the  universe  took 
part  in  my  cries,  when  all  at  once  the  chorus  of  pain  fell 
hushed  before  the  child's  feeble  note. 

They  laid  me  back  again  in  the  large  bed,  and  it  felt  like 
paradise  to  me,  even  in  my  extreme  exhaustion.  Three  or 
four  happy  faces  pointed  through  tears  to  the  child.  My 
dear,  I  exclaimed  in  terror: 

"It's  just  like  a  little  monkey!  Are  you  really  and 
truly  certain  it  is  a  child?" 

I  fell  back  on  my  side,  miserably  disappointed  at  my 
first  experience  of  motherly  feeling. 

"Don't  worry,  dear,"  said  my  mother,  who  had  installed 
herself  as  nurse.  "Why,  you've  got  the  finest  baby  in 
the  world.  You  mustn't  excite  yourself;  but  give  your 
whole  mind  now  to  turning  yourself  as  much  as  possible 
into  an  animal,  a  milch  cow,  pasturing  in  the  meadow." 

I  fell  asleep  then,  fully  resolved  to  let  nature  have 
her  way. 

Ah!  my  sweet,  how  heavenly  it  was  to  waken  up  from 


558  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

all  the  pain  and  haziness  of  the  first  days,  when  every- 
thing was  still  dim,  uncomfortable,  confused.  .A  ray  of 
light  pierced  the  darkness;  my  heart  and  soul,  my  inner 
self — a  self  I  had  never  known  before — rent  the  envelope 
of  gloomy  suffering,  as  a  flower  bursts  its  sheath  at  the 
first  warm  kiss  of  the  sun,  at  the  moment  when  the  little 
wretch  fastened  on  my  breast  and  sucked.  Not  even  the 
sensation  of  the  child's  first  cry  was  so  exquisite  as  this. 
This  is  the  dawn  of  motherhood,  this  is  the  Fiat  lux! 

Here  is  happiness,  joy  ineffable,  though  it  comes  not 
without  pangs.  Oh!  my  sweet  jealous  soul,  how  you  will 
relish  a  delight  which  exists  only  for  ourselves,  the  child, 
and  God!  For  this  tiny  creature  all  knowledge  is  summed 
up  in  its  mother's  breast.  This  is  the  one  bright  spot  in 
its  world,  toward  which  its  puny  strength  goes  forth.  Its 
thoughts  cluster  round  this  spring  of  life,  which  it  leaves 
only  to  sleep,  and  whither  it  returns  on  waking.  Its  lips 
have  a  sweetness  beyond  words,  and  their  pressure  is  at 
once  a  pain  and  a  delight,  a  delight  which  by  very  excess 
becomes  pain,  or  a  pain  which  culminates  in  delight.  The 
sensation  which  rises  from  it,  and  which  penetrates  to  the 
very  core  of  my  life,  baffles  all  description.  It  seems  a 
sort  of  centre  whence  a  myriad  joy-bearing  rays  gladden 
the  heart  and  soul.  To  bear  a  child  is  nothing;  to  nour- 
ish it  is  birth  renewed  every  hour. 

Oh !  Louise,  there  is  no  caress  of  lover  with  half  the 
power  of  those  little  pink  hands,  as  they  stray  about,  seek- 
ing whereby  to  lay  hold  on  life.  And  the  infant  glances, 
now  turned  upon  the  breast,  now  raised  to  meet  our  own! 
What  dreams  come  to  us  as  we  watch  the  clinging  nurs- 
ling! All  our  powers,  whether  of  mind  or  body,  are  at  its 
service;  for  it  we  breathe  and  think,  in  it  our  longings  are 
more  than  satisfied!  The  sweet  sensation  of  warmth  at  the 
heart,  which  the  sound  of  his  first  cry  brought  to  me— like 
the  first  ray  of  sunshine  on  the  earth — came  again  as  I  felt 
the  milk  flow  into  his  mouth,  again  as  his  eyes  met  mine, 
and  at  this  moment  I  have  felt  it  once  more  as  his  first 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  559 

smile  gave  token  of  a  mind  working  within — for  he  has 
laughed,  my  dear!  A  laugh,  a  glance,  a  bite,  a  cry — four 
miracles  of  gladness  which  go  straight  to  the  heart  and 
strike  chords  that  respond  to  no  other  touch.  A  child  is 
tied  to  our  heartstrings  as  the  spheres  are  linked  to  their 
creator;  we  cannot  think  of  God  except  as  a  mother's  heart 
writ  large. 

It  is  only  in  the  act  of  nursing  that  a  woman  realizes  her 
motherhood  in  visible  and  tangible  fashion;  it  is  a  joy  of 
every  moment.  The  milk  becomes  flesh  before  our  eyes; 
it  blossoms  into  the  tips  of  those  delicate  flower-like  fin- 
gers; it  expands  in  tender,  transparent  nails;  it  spins  the 
silky  tresses ;  it  kicks  in  the  little  feet.  Oh !  those  baby  feet, 
how  plainly  they  talk  to  us !  In  them  the  child  finds  its  first 
language. 

Yes,  Louise,  nursing  is  a  miracle  of  transformation 
going  on  before  one's  bewildered  eyes.  Those  cries,  they 
go  to  your  heart  and  not  your  ears;  those  smiling  eyes  and 
lips,  those  plunging  feet,  they  speak  in  words  which  could 
not  be  plainer  if  God  traced  them  before  you  in  letters  of 
fire !  What  else  is  there  in  the  world  to  care  about  ?  The 
father  ?  Why,  you  could  kill  him  if  he  dreamed  of  waking 
the  baby!  Just  as  the  child  is  the  world  to  us,  so  do  we 
stand  alone  in  the  world  for  the  child.  The  sweet  conscious- 
ness of  a  common  life  is  ample  recompense  for  all  the  trouble 
and  suffering — for  suffering  there  is.  Heaven  save  you, 
Louise,  from  ever  knowing  the  maddening  agony  of  a  wound 
which  gapes  afresh  with  every  pressure  of  rosy  lips,  and  is 
so  hard  to  heal — the  heaviest  tax  perhaps  imposed  on  beauty. 
For  know,  Louise,  and  beware !  it  visits  only  a  fair  and  deli- 
cate skin. 

My  little  ape  has  in  five  months  developed  into  the  pret- 
tiest darling  that  ever  mother  bathed  in  tears  of  joy,  washed, 
brushed,  combed,  and  made  smart;  for  God  knows  what  un- 
wearied care  we  lavish  upon  these  tender  blossoms!  So  my 
monkey  has  ceased  to  exist,  and  behold  in  his  stead,  a  baby, 
as  my  English  nurse  says,  a  regular  pink-and-white  baby. 


560  BALZAC'S   WORKS 

He  cries  very  little  too  now,  for  he  is  conscious  of  the  love 
bestowed  on  him;  indeed,  I  hardly  ever  leave  him,  and  I 
strive  to  wrap  him  round  in  the  atmosphere  of  my  love. 

Dear,  I  have  a  feeling  now  for  Louis  which  is  not  love, 
but  which  ought  to  be  the  crown  of  a  woman's  love  where 
it  exists.  Nay,  I  am  not  sure  whether  this  tender  fondness, 
this  unselfish  gratitude,  is  not  superior  to  love.  From  all 
that  you  have  told  me  of  it,  dear  pet,  I  gather  that  love  has 
something  terribly  earthly  about  it,  while  a  strain  of  holy 
pietv  purifies  the  affection  a  happy  mother  feels  for  the 
author  of  her  far-reaching  and  enduring  joys.  A  mother's 
happiness  is  like  a  beacon,  lighting  up  the  future  but  reflected 
also  on  the  past  in  the  guise  of  fond  memories. 

The  old  1'Estorade  and  his  son  have  moreover  redoubled 
their  devotion  to  me;  I  am  like  a  new  person  to  them. 
Every  time  they  see  me  and  speak  to  me,  it  is  with  a  fresh 
holiday  joy,  which  touches  me  deeply.  The  grandfather 
has,  I  verily  believe,  turned  child  again;  he  looks  at  me 
admiringly,  and  the  first  time  I  came  down  to  lunch  he  was 
moved  to  tears  to  see  me  eating  and  suckling  the  child.  The 
moisture  in  these  dry  old  eyes,  generally  expressive  only  of 
avarice,  was  a  wonderful  comfort  to  me.  I  felt  that  the  good 
soul  entered  into  my  joy. 

As  for  Louis,  he  would  shout  aloud  to  the  trees  and  stones 
of  the  highway  that  he  has  a  son;  and  he  spends  whole  hours 
watching  your  sleeping  godson.  He  does  not  know,  he  says, 
when  he  will  grow  used  to  it.  These  extravagant  expres- 
sions of  delight  show  me  how  great  must  have  been  their 
fears  beforehand.  Louis  has  confided  in  me  that  he  had 
believed  himself  condemned  to  be  childless.  Poor  fellow! 
he  has  all  at  once  developed  very  much,  and  he  works  even 
harder  than  he  did.  The  father  in  him  has  quickened  his 
ambition. 

For  myself,  dear  soul,  I  grow  happier  and  happier  every 
moment.  Each  hour  creates  a  fresh  tie  between  the  mother 
and  her  infant.  The  very  nature  of  my  feelings  proves  to  me 
that  they  are  normal,  permanent,  and  indestructible;  whereas 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  561 

I  shrewdly  suspect  love,  for  instance,  of  being  intermittent. 
Certainly  it  is  not  the  same  at  all  moments,  the  flowers  which 
it  weaves  into  the  web  of  life  are  not  all  of  equal  brightness; 
love,  in  short,  can  and  must  decline.  But  a  mother's  love 
has  no  ebb-tide  to  fear;  rather  it  grows  with  the  growth  of 
the  child's  needs,  and  strengthens  with  its  strength.  Is  it  not 
at  once  a  passion,  a  natural  craving,  a  feeling,  a  duty,  a 
necessity,  a  joy?  Yes,  darling,  here  is  woman's  true  sphere. 
Here  the  passion  for  self-sacrifice  can  expend  itself,  and  no 
jealousy  intrudes. 

Here,  too,  is  perhaps  the  single  point  on  which  society 
and  nature  are  at  one.  Society,  in  this  matter,  enforces  the 
dictates  of  nature,  strengthening  the  maternal  instinct  by 
adding  to  it  family  spirit  and  the  desire  of  perpetuating  a 
name,  a  race,  an  estate.  How  tenderly  must  not  a  woman 
cherish  the  child  who  has  been  the  first  to  open  up  to  her 
these  joys,  the  first  to  call  forth  the  energies  of  her  nature 
and  to  instruct  her  in  the  grand  art  of  motherhood!  The 
right  of  the  eldest,  which  in  the  earliest  times  formed  a  part 
of  the  natural  order  and  was  lost  in  the  origins  of  society, 
ought  never,  in  my  opinion,  to  have  been  questioned.  Ah! 
how  much  a  mother  learns  from  her  child!  The  constant 
protection  of  a  helpless  being  forces  us  to  so  strict  an  alliance 
with  virtue,  that  a  woman  never  shows  to  full  advantage 
except  as  a  mother.  Then  alone  can  her  character  expand 
in  the  fulfilment  of  all  life's  duties  and  the  enjoyment  of  all 
its  pleasures.  A  woman  who  is  not  a  mother  is  maimed  and 
incomplete.  Hasten,  then,  my  sweetest,  to  fulfil  your  mis- 
sion. Your  present  happiness  will  then  be  multiplied  by 
the  wealth  of  my  delights. 

23d. 

I  HAD  to  tear  myself  from  you  because  your  godson  was 
crying.  I  can  hear  his  cry  from  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
But  I  would  not  let  this  go  without  a  word  of  farewell.  I 
have  just  been  reading  over  what  I  have  said,  and  am  horri- 
fied to  see  how  vulgar  are  the  feelings  expressed!  What  I. 
feel,  every  mother,  alas!  since  the  beginning  must  have  felt, 


562  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

I  suppose,  in  the  same  way,  and  put  into  the  same  words. 
You  will  laugh  at  me,  as  we  do  at  the  naive  father  who  dilates 
on  the  beauty  and  cleverness  of  his  (of  course)  quite  excep- 
tional offspring.  But  the  refrain  of  my  letter,  darling,  is  this, 
and  I -repeat  it:  I  am  as  happy  now  as  I  used  to  be  miser- 
able. This  grange — and  is  it  not  going  to  be  an  estate,  a 
family  property? — has  become  my  land  of  promise.  The 
desert  is  past  and  over.  A  thousand  loves,  darling  pet. 
Write  to  me,  for  now  I  can  read  without  a  tear  the  tale  of 
your  happy  love.  Farewell. 


XXXII 

MME.    DE   MACUMER   TO    MME.    DE   I/ESTORADE 

March,  1826. 

TT\0  YOU  KNOW,  DEAR,  that  it  is  more  than  three 

/    M     months  since  I  have  written  to  you  or  heard  from 

you  ?     I  am  the  more  guilty  of  the  two,  for  I  did 

not  reply  to  your  last,  but  you  don't  stand  on  punctilio 

surely  ? 

Macumer  and  I  have  taken  your  silence  for  consent  as 
regards  the  baby-wreathed  luncheon  service,  and  the  little 
cherubs  are  starting  this  morning  for  Marseilles.  It  took  six 
months  to  carry  out  the  design.  And  so  when  Felipe  asked 
me  to  come  and  see  the  service  before  it  was  packed,  I  sud- 
denly waked  up  to  the  fact  that  we  had  not  interchanged  a 
word  since  the  letter  of  yours  which  gave  me  an  insight  into 
a  mother's  heart. 

My  sweet,  it  is  this  terrible  Paris — there's  my  excuse. 
What,  pray,  is  yours?  Oh!  what  a  whirlpool  is  society! 
Didn't  I  tell  you  once  that  in  Paris  one  must  be  as  the  Pari- 
sians? Society  there  drives  out  all  sentiment;  it  lays  an 
embargo  on  your  time ;  and  unless  you  are  very  careful,  soon 
eats  away  your  heart  altogether.  What  an  amazing  master- 
piece is  the  character  of  Celimene  in  Moliere's  "Le  Misan- 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  563 

thrope" !  She  is  the  society  woman,  not  only  of  Louis  XIV.  's 
time,  but  of  our  own,  and  of  all  time. 

Where  should  I  be  but  for  my  breastplate — the  love  I  bear 
Felipe  ?  This  very  morning  I  told  him,  as  the  outcome  of 
these  reflections,  that  he  was  my  salvation.  If  my  evenings 
are  a  continuous  round  of  parties,  balls,  concerts,  and  the- 
atres, at  night  my  heart  expands  again,  and  is  healed  of  the 
wounds  received  in  the  world  by  the  delights  of  the  pas- 
sionate love  which  await  my  return. 

I  dine  at  home  only  when  we  have  friends,  so-called,  with 
us,  and  spend  the  afternoon  there  only  on  my  day,  for  I  have 
a  day  now — Wednesday — for  receiving.  I  have  entered  the 
lists  with  Mines.  d'Espard  and  de  Maufrigneuse,  and  with 
the  old  Duchesse  de  Lenoncourt,  and  my  house  has  the  repu- 
tation of  being  a  very  lively  one.  I  allowed  myself  to  become 
the  fashion,  because  I  saw  how  much  pleasure  my  success 
gave  Felipe.  My  mornings  are  his;  from  four  in  the  after- 
noon till  two  in  the  morning  I  belong  to  Paris.  Macumer 
makes  an  admirable  host,  witty  and  dignified,  perfect  in 
courtesy,  and  with  an  air  of  real  distinction.  No  woman 
could  help  loving  such  a  husband  even  if  she  had  chosen 
him  without  consulting  her  heart. 

My  father  and  mother  have  left  for  Madrid.  Louis 
XVIII.  being  out  of  the  way,  the  Duchess  had  no  difficulty 
in  obtaining  from  our  good-natured  Charles  X.  the  appoint- 
ment of  her  fascinating  poet;  so  he  is  carried  off  in  the 
capacity  of  attache. 

My  brother,  the  Due  de  Bhe'tore',  deigns  to  recognize  me 
as  a  person  of  mark.  As  for  my  younger  brother,  the  Comte 
de  Chaulieu,  this  buckram  warrior  owes  me  everlasting  grati- 
tude. Before  my  father  left,  he  spent  my  fortune  in  acquir- 
ing for  the  Count  an  estate  of  forty  thousand  francs  a  year, 
entailed  on  the  title,  and  his  marriage  with  Mile,  de  Mortsauf, 
an  heiress  from  Touraiiie,  is  definitely  arranged.  The  King, 
in  order  to  preserve  the  name  and  titles  of  the  de  Lenoncourt 
and  de  Givry  families  from  extinction,  is  to  confer  these, 
together  with  the  armorial  bearings,  by  patent  on  my  brother. 


564  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Certainly  it  would  never  have  clone  to  allow  these  two  fine 
names  and  their  splendid  motto,  Faciem  semper  monstramus, 
to  perish.  Mile,  de  Mortsauf,  who  is  granddaughter  and  sole 
heiress  of  the  Due  de  Lenoncourt-Givrv,  will,  it  is  said,  in- 
herit altogether  more  than  one  hundred  thousand  livres  a 
year.  The  only  stipulation  my  father  has  made  is  that  the 
de  Chaulieu  arms  should  appear  in  the  centre  of  the  de  Le- 
noncourt  escutcheon:  thus  my  brother  will  be  Due  de  Lenon- 
court.  The  young  de  Mortsauf,  to  whom  everything  would 
otherwise  go,  is  in  the  last  stage  of  consumption;  his  death 
is  looked  for  every  day.  The  marriage  will  take  place  next 
winter  when  the  family  are  out  of  mourning.  I  am  told  that 
I  shall  have  a  charming  sister-in-law  in  Mile,  de  Mortsauf. 

So  you  see  that  my  father's  reasoning  is  justified.  The 
outcome  of  it  all  has  won  me  many  compliments,  and  my 
marriage  is  explained  to  everybody's  satisfaction.  To  com- 
plete our  success,  the  Prince  de  Talleyrand,  out  of  affection 
for  my  grandmother,  is  showing  himself  a  warm  friend  to 
Macumer.  Society,  which  began  by  criticising  me,  has  now 
passed  to  cordial  admiration. 

In  short,  I  now  reign  a  queen  where,  barely  two  years 
ago,  I  was  an  insignificant  item.  Macumer  finds  himself  the 
object  of  universal  envy,  as  the  husband  of  "the  most  charm- 
ing woman  in  Paris."  At  least  a  score  of  women,  as  you 
know,  are  always  in  that  proud  position.  Men  murmur  sweet 
things  in  my  ear,  or  content  themselves  with  greedy  glances. 
This  chorus  of  longing  and  admiration  is  so  soothing  to  one's 
vanity,  that  I  confess  I  begin  to  understand  the  unconscion- 
able price  women  are  ready  to  pay  for  such  frail  and  precari- 
ous privileges.  A  triumph  of  this  kind  is  like  strong  wine 
to  vanity,  self-love,  and  all  the  self-regarding  feelings.  To 
pose  perpetually  as  a  divinity  is  a  draught  so  potent  in  its 
intoxicating  effects,  that  I  am  no  longer  surprised  to  see 
women  grow  selfish,  callous,  and  frivolous  in  the  heart  of 
this  adoration.  The  fumes  of  society  mount  to  the  head. 
You  lavish  the  wealth  of  your  soul  and  spirit,  the  treasures 
of  your  time,  the  noblest  efforts  of  your  will,  upon  a  crowd 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  566 

of  people  who  repay  you  in  smiles  and  jealousy.  The  false 
coin  of  their  pretty  speeches,  compliments,  and  flattery  is 
the  only  return  they  give  for  the  solid  gold  of  your  courage 
and  sacrifices,  and  all  the  thought  that  must  go  to  keep  up 
without  flagging  the  standard  of  beauty,  dress,  sparkling 
talk,  and  general  affability.  You  are  perfectly  aware  how 
much  it  costs,  and  that  the  whole  thing  is  a  fraud,  but  you 
cannot  keep  out  of  the  vortex. 

Ah!  my  sweetheart,  how  one  craves  for  a  real  friend! 
How  precious  to  me  are  the  love  and  devotion  of  Felipe,  and 
how  my  heart  goes  out  to  you !  Joyfully  indeed  are  we  pre- 
paring for  our  move  to  Chantepleurs,  where  we  can  rest  from 
the  comedy  of  the  Kue  du  Bac  and  of  the  Paris  drawing- 
rooms.  Having  just  read  your  letter  again,  I  feel  that  I 
cannot  better  describe  this  demoniac  paradise  than  by  saying 
that  no  woman  of  fashion  in  Paris  can  possibly  be  a  good 
mother. 

Good-by,  then,  for  a  short  time,  dear  one.  We  shall 
stay  at  Chantepleurs  only  a  week  at  most,  and  shall  be  with 
you  about  May  10th.  So  we  are  actually  to  meet  again  after 
more  than  two  years !  What  changes  since  then !  Here  we 
are,  both  matrons,  both  in  our  promised  land — I  of  love, 
you  of  motherhood. 

If  I  have  not  written,  my  sweetest,  it  is  not  because  I  have 
forgotten  you.  And  what  of  the  monkey  godson?  Is  he 
still  pretty  and  a  credit  to  me  ?  He  must  be  more  than  nine 
months  old  now.  I  should  dearly  like  to  be  present  when 
he  makes  his  first  steps  upon  this  earth;  but  Macumer  tells 
me  that  even  precocious  infants  hardly  walk  at  ten  months. 

We  shall  have  some  good  gossips  there,  and  "cut  pina- 
fores," as  the  Blois  folk  say.  I  shall  see  whether  a  child, 
as  the  saying  goes,  spoils  the  pattern. 

P.S. — If  you  deign  to  reply  from  your  maternal  heights, 
address  to  Chantepleurs.  I  am  just  off. 


566  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

XXXIII 

MME.  DE  L'ESTORADE  TO  MME.  DE  MACUMEB 

Tj  ^r  Y  CHILD — If  ever  you  become  a  mother,  you  will 

/I//      find  out  that  it  is  impossible  to  write  letters  during 

the  first  two  months  of  your  nursing.      Mary,  my 

English  nurse,  and  I  are  both  quite  knocked  up.     It  is  triie 

I  had  not  told  you  that  I  was  determined  to  do  everything 

myself.     Before  the  event  I  had  with  my  own  fingers  sewn 

the  baby-clothes  and  embroidered  and  edged  with  lace  the 

little  caps.     I  am  a  slave,  my  pet,  a  slave  day  and  night. 

To  begin  with,  Master  Armand-Louis  takes  his  meals 
when  it  pleases  him,  and  that  is  always;  then  he  has  often 
to  be  changed,  washed,  and  dressed.  His  mother  is  so  fond 
of  watching  him  asleep,  of  singing  songs  to  him,  of  walking 
him  about  in  her  arms  on  a  fine  day,  that  she  has  little  time 
left  to  attend  to  herself.  In  short,  what  society  has  been  to 
you,  my  child — our  child — has  been  to  me! 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  full  and  rich  my  life  has  become, 
and  I  long  for  your  coming  that  you  may  see  for  yourself. 
The  only  thing  is,  I  am  afraid  he  will  soon  be  teething, 
and  that  you  will  find  a  peevish,  crying  baby.  So  far  he 
has  not  cried  much,  for  I  am  always  at  hand.  Babies  only 
cry  when  their  wants  are  not  understood,  and  I  am  con- 
stantly on  the  lookout  for  his.  Oh!  my  sweet,  my  heart 
has  opened  up  so  wide,  while  you  allow  yours  to  shrink 
and  shrivel  at  the  bidding  of  society !  I  look  for  your 
coming  with  all  a  hermit's  longing.  I  want  so  much  to 
know  what  you  think  of  1'Estorade,  just  as  you  no  doubt 
are  curious  for  my  opinion  of  Macumer. 

Write  to  me  from  your  last  resting-place.  The  gentle- 
men want  to  go  and  meet  our  distinguished  guests.  Come, 
Queen  of  Paris,  come  to  our  humble  grange,  where  love  at 
least  will  greet  you ! 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  567 


XXXIV 

MME.    DE   MACUMER  TO   THE   VICOMTESSE   DE   I/ESTORADE 

April,  1826, 

rHE  NAME  on  this  address  will  tell  you,  dear,  that 
my  petition  has  been  granted.     Your  father-in-law 
is   now  Comte   de   1'Estorade.     I  would  not  leave 
Paris  till  I  had  obtained  the  gratification  of  your  wishes, 
and  I  am  writing  in  the  presence  of  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals, 
who  has  come  to  tell  me  that  the  patent  is  signed. 
Good- by  for  a  short  time! 


XXXV 

THE   SAME  TO  THE   SAME 

MARSEILLES,  July. 

/AM  ASHAMED  to  think  how  my  sudden  flight  will 
have  taken  you  by  surprise.     But  since  I  am  above 
all  honest,  and  since  I  love  you  not  one  bit  the  less, 
I  shall  tell   you  the  truth  in  four  words:    I  am   horribly 
jealous! 

Felipe's  eyes  were*  too  often  on  you.  You  used  to  have 
little  talks  together  at  the  foot  of  your  rock,  which  were  a 
torture  to  me;  and  I  was  fast  becoming  irritable  and  unlike 
myself.  Your  truly  Spanish  beauty  could  not  fail  to  recall 
to  him  his  native  land,  and  along  with  it  Marie  He'redia, 
and  I  can  be  jealous  of  the  past  too.  Your  magnificent 
black  hair,  your  lovely  dark  eyes,  your  brow,  where  the 
peaceful  joy  of  motherhood  stands  out  radiant  against 
the  shadows  which  tell  of  past  suffering,  the  freshness  of 
your  southern  skin,  far  fairer  than  that  of  a  blonde  like 
me,  the  splendid  lines  of  your  figure,  the  breasts,  on  which 
my  godson  hangs,  peeping  through  the  lace  like  some  lus- 


568  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

cious  fruit — all  this  stabbed  me  in  the  eyes  and  in  the 
heart.  In  vain  did  I  stick  cornflowers  in  my  curls,  in 
vain  set  off  with  cherry-colored  ribbons  the  tameness  of 
my  pale  locks,  everything  looked  washed  out  when  Eene'e 
appeared — a  Kenee  so  unlike  the  one  I  expected  to  find  in 
your  oasis. 

Then  Felipe  made  too  much  of  the  child,  whom  I  found 
myself  beginning  to  hate.  Yes,  I  confess  it,  that  exuber- 
ance of  life  which  fills  your  house,  making  it  gay  with 
shouts  and  laughter — I  wanted  it  for  myself.  I  read  a 
regret  in  Macumer's  eyes,  and,  unknown  to  him,  I  cried 
over  it  two  whole  nights.  I  was  miserable  in  your  house. 
You  are  too  beautiful  as  a"  woman,  too  triumphant  as  a 
mother,  for  me  to  endure  your  company. 

Ah!  you  complained  of  your  lot.  Hypocrite!  What 
would  you  have?  L'Estorade  is  most  presentable;  he 
talks  well;  he  has  fine  eyes;  and  his  black  hair,  dashed 
with  white,  is  very  becoming;  his  southern  manners,  too, 
have  something  attractive  about  them.  As  far  as  I  can 
make  out,  he  will,  sooner  or  later,  be  elected  deputy  for 
the  Bouches-du-Khone;  in  the  chamber  he  is  sure  to  come 
to  the  front,  for  you  can  always  count  on  me  to  promote 
your  interests.  The  sufferings  of  his  exile  have  given  him 
that  calm  and  dignified  air  which  goes  half-way,  in  my 
opinion,  to  make  a  politician.  For  the  whole  art  of  poli- 
tics, dear,  seems  to  me  to  consist  in  looking  serious.  At 
this  rate,  Macumer,  as  I  told  him,  ought  certainly  to  have 
a  high  position  in  the  state. 

And  so,  having  completely  satisfied  myself  of  your  hap- 
piness, I  fly  off  contented  to  my  dear  Chantepleurs,  where 
Felipe  must  really  achieve  his  aspirations.  I  have  made 
up  my  mind  not  to  receive  you  there  without  a  fine  baby 
at  my  breast  to  match  yours. 

Oh !  I  know  very  well  I  deserve  all  the  epithets  you  can 
hurl  at  me.  I  am  a  fool,  a  wretch,  an  idiot.  Alas!  that  is 
just  what  jealousy  means.  I  am  not  vexed  with  you,  but  I 
was  miserable,  and  you  will  forgive  me  for  escaping  from 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  56G 

my  misery.  Two  days  more,  and  I  should  have  made  an 
exhibition  of  myself;  yes,  there  would  have  been  an  out- 
break of  vulgarity. 

But  in  spite  of  the  rage  gnawing  at  my  heart,  I  am  glad 
to  have  come,  glad  to  have  seen  you  in  the  pride  of  your 
beautiful  motherhood,  my  friend  still,  as  I  remain  yours 
in  all  the  absorption  of  my  love.  Why,  even  here  at  Mar- 
seilles, only  a  step  from  your  door,  I  begin  to  feel  proud 
of  you  and  of  the  splendid  mother  that  you  will  make. 

How  well  you  judged  your  vocation!  You  seem  to  me 
born  for  the  part  of  mother  rather  than  of  lover,  exactly 
as  the  reverse  is  true  of  me.  There  are  women  capable  of 
neither,  hard-favored  or  silly  women.  A  good  mother  and 
a  passionately  loving  wife  have  this  in  common,  that  they 
both  need  intelligence  and  discretion  ever  at  hand,  and  an 
unfailing  command  of  every  womanly  art  and  grace.  Oh! 
I  watched  you  well;  need  I  add,  sly  puss,  that  I  admired 
you  too?  Your  children  will  be  happy,  but  not  spoiled, 
with  your  tenderness  lapping  them  round  and  the  clear 
light  of  your  reason  playing  softly  on  them. 

Tell  Louis  the  truth  about  my  going  away,  but  find 
some  decent  excuse  for  your  father-in-law,  who  seems  to 
act  as  steward  for  the  establishment;  and  be  careful  to  do 
the  same  for  your  family — a  true  Provencal  version  of  the 
Harlowe  family.  Felipe  does  not  yet  know  why  I  left, 
and  he  will  never  know.  If  he  asks,  I  shall  contrive  to 
find  some  colorable  pretext,  probably  that  you  were  jeal- 
ous of  me!  Forgive  me  this  little  conventional  fib. 

Good-by.  I  write  in  haste,  as  I  want  you  to  get  this  at 
lunch-time;  and  the  postilion,  who  has  undertaken  to 
convey  it  to  you,  is  here,  refreshing  himself  while  he 
waits. 

Many  kisses  to  my  dear  little  godson.  Be  sure  you 
come  to  Chantepleurs  in  October.  I  shall  be  alone  there 
all  the  time  that  Macumer  is  away  in  Sardinia,  where  he 
is  designing  great  improvements  in  his  estate.  At  least 
that  is  his  plan  for  the  moment,  and  his  pet  vanity  con- 


BALZAC'S    WORKS 


sists  in  having  a  plan.  Then  he  feels  that  he  has  a  will 
of  his  own,  and  this  makes  him  very  uneasy  when  he  un- 
folds it  to  me.  Grood-by! 


XXXVI 

THE    VICOMTESSE    DE    I/ESTORADE    TO    THE    BARONNE 
DE    MAGUMER 


—  No  words  can  express  the  astonishment  of  all 
our  party  when,  at  luncheon,  we  were  told  that  you 
had  both  gone,  and,  above  all,  when  the  postilion 
who  took  you  to  Marseilles  handed  me  your  mad  letter. 
Why,  naughty  child,  it  was  your  happiness,  and  nothing 
else,  that  made  the  theme  of  those  talks  below  the  rock, 
on  the  "Louise"  seat,  and  you  had  not  the  faintest  justifi- 
cation for  objecting  to  them.  Ingrata  !  My  sentence  on 
you  is  that  you  return  here  at  my  first  summons.  In  that 
horrid  letter,  scribbled  on  the  inn  paper,  you  did  not  tell 
me  what  would  be  your  next  stopping  place;  so  I  must 
address  this  to  Chantepleurs. 

Listen  to  me,  dear  sister  of  my  heart.  Know  first, 
that  my  mind  is  set  on  your  happiness.  Your  husband, 
dear  Louise,  commands  respect,  not  only  by  his  natural 
gravity  and  dignified  expression,  but  also  because  he 
somehow  impresses  one  with  the  depth  of  his  mind  and 
thoughts.  Add  to  this  the  splendid  power  revealed  in  his 
piquant  plainness  and  in  the  fire  of  his  velvet  eyes;  and 
you  will  understand  that  it  was  some  little  time  before  I 
could  meet  him  on  those  easy  terms  which  are  almost  nec- 
essary for  intimate  conversation.  Further,  this  man  has 
been  Prime  Minister,  and  he  idolizes  you;  whence  it  fol- 
lows that  he  must  be  a  profound  dissembler.  To  fish  up 
secrets,  therefore,  from  the  rocky  caverns  of  this  diplo- 
matic soul  is  a  work  demanding  a  skilful  hand  no  less 
than  a  ready  brain.  Nevertheless,  I  succeeded  at  last, 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  571 

without  rousing  my  victim's  suspicions,  in  discovering 
many  things  of  which  you,  my  pet,  have  no  conception. 

You  know  that,  between  us  two,  my  part  is  rather  that 
of  reason,  yours  of  imagination:  I  personify  sober  duty, 
you  reckless  love.  It  has  pleased  fate  to  continue  in  our 
lives  this  contrast  in  character  which  was  imperceptible  to 
all  except  ourselves.  I  am  a  simple  country  viscountess, 
very  ambitious,  and  making  it  her  task  to  lead  her  family 
on  the  road  to  prosperity.  On  the  other  hand,  Macumer, 
late  Due  de  Soria,  has  a  name  in  the  world,  and  you,  a 
duchess  by  right,  reign  in  Paris,  where  reigning  is  no  easy 
matter  even  for  kings.  You  have  a  considerable  fortune, 
which  will  be  doubled  if  Macumer  carries  out  his  projects 
for  developing  his  great  estates  in  Sardinia,  the  resources 
of  which  are  matter  of  common  talk  at  Marseilles.  Deny, 
if  you  can,  that  if  either  has  a  right  to  be  jealous,  it  is  not 
you.  '  But,  thank  God,  we  have  both  hearts  generous 
enough  to  place  our  friendship  beyond  reach  of  such 
vulgar  pettiness. 

I  know  you,  dear;  I  know  that,  ere  now,  you  are 
ashamed  of  having  fled.  But  don't  suppose  that  your 
flight  will  save  you  from  a  single  word  of  the  discourse 
which  I  had  prepared  for  your  benefit  to-day  beneath  the 
rock.  Eead  carefully  then,  I  beg  of  you,  what  I  say,  for 
it  concerns  you  even  more  closely  than  Macumer,  though 
he  also  enters  largely  into  my  sermon. 

First,  my  dear,  you  do  not  love  him.  Before  two 
years  are  over,  you  will  be  sick  of  adoration.  You  will 
never  look  on  Felipe  as  a  husband ;  to  you  he  will  always 
be  the  lover  whom  you  can  play  with,  for  that  is  how  all 
women  treat  their  lovers.  You  do  not  look  up  to  him,  or 
reverence,  or  worship  him  as  a  woman  should  the  god  of 
her  idolatry.  You  see,  I  have  made  a  study  of  love,  my 
sweet,  and  more  than  once  have  I  taken  soundings  in  the 
depths  of  my  own  heart.  Now,  as  the  result  of  a  careful 
diagnosis  of  your  case,  I  can  say  with  confidence,  this  is 
not  love. 


572  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Yes,  dear  Queen  of  Paris,  you  cannot  escape  the  des- 
tiny of  all  queens.  The  day  will  come  when  you  long  to 
be  treated  as  a  light-o'-love,  to  be  mastered  and  swept  off 
your  feet  by  a  strong  man,  one  who  will  not  prostrate  him- 
self in  adoration  before  you,  but  will  seize  your  arm 
roughly  in  a  fit  of  jealousy.  Macumer  loves  you  too 
fondly  ever  to  be  able  either  to  resist  you  or  find  fault 
with  you.  A  single  glance  from  you,  a  single  coaxing 
word,  would  melt  his  sternest  resolution.  Sooner  or  later, 
you  will  learn  to  scorn  this  excessive  devotion.  He  spoils 
you,  alas!  just  as  I  used  to  spoil  you  at  the  convent,  for 
you  are  a  most  bewitching  woman,  and  there  is  no  escap- 
ing your  siren-like  charms. 

Worse  than  all,  you  are  candid,  and  it  often  happens 
that  our  happiness  depends  on  certain  social  hypocrisies  to 
which  you  will  never  stoop.  For  instance,  society  will  not 
tolerate  a  frank  display  of  the  wife's  power  over  her  hus- 
band. The  convention  is  that  a  man  must  no  more  show 
himself  the  lover  of  his  wife,  however  passionately  he 
adores  her,  than  a  married  woman  may  play  the  part  of  a 
mistress.  This  rule  you  both  disregard. 

In  the  first  place,  my  child,  from  what  you  have  yourself 
told  me,  it  is  clear  that  the  one  unpardonable  sin  in  society 
is  to  be  happy.  If  happiness  exists,  no  one  must  know  of  it. 
But  this  is  a  small  point.  What  seems  tc  me  important  is 
that  the  perfect  equality  which  reign's  between  lovers  ought 
never  to  appear  in  the  case  of  husband  and  wife,  under  pain 
of  undermining  the  whole  fabric  of  society  and  entailing  ter- 
rible disasters.  If  it  is  painful  to  see  a  man  whom  nature 
has  made  a  nonentity,  how  much  worse  is  the  spectacle  of  a 
man  of  parts  brought  to  that  position  ?  Before  very  long 
you  will  have  reduced  Macumer  to  the  mere  shadow  of  a 
man.  He  will  cease  to  have  a  will  and  character  of  his  own, 
and  become  mere  clay  in  your  hands.  You  will  have  so 
completely  molded  him  to  your  likeness,  that  your  house- 
hold will  consist  of  only  one  person  instead  of  two,  and  that 
one  necessarily  imperfect.  You  will  regret  it  bitterly;  but 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  573 

when  at  last  you  deign  to  open  your  eyes,  the  evil  will  be 
past  cure.  Do  what  we  will,  women  do  not,  and  never  will, 
possess  the  qualities  which  are  characteristic  of  men,  and 
these  qualities  are  absolutely  indispensable  to  family  life. 
Already  Macumer,  blinded  though  he  is,  has  a  dim  fore- 
shadowing of  this  future;  he  feels  himself  less  a  man  through 
his  love.  His  visit  to  Sardinia  is  a  proof  to  me  that  he  hopes  by 
this  temporary  separation  to  succeed  in  recovering  his  old  self. 

You  never  scruple  to  use  the  power  which  his  love  has 
placed  in  your  hand.  Y"our  position  of  vantage  may  be  read 
in  a  gesture,  a  look,  a  tone.  Oh!  darling,  how  truly  are  you 
the  mad  wanton  your  mother  called  you!  You  do  not  ques- 
tion, I  fancy,  that  I  am  greatly  Louis's  superior.  Well,  I 
would  ask  you,  have  you  ever  heard  me  contradict  him? 
Am  I  not  always,  in  the  presence  of  others,  the  wife  who 
respects  in  him  the  authority  of  the  family?  Hypocrisy! 
you  will  say.  Well,  listen  to  me.  It  is  true  that  if  I  want 
to  give  him  any  advice  which  I  think  may  be  of  use  to  him, 
I  wait  for  the  quiet  and  seclusion  of  our  bedroom  to  explain 
what  I  think  and  wish;  but,  I  assure  you,  sweetheart,  that 
even  there  I  never  arrogate  to  myself  the  place  of  mentor. 
If  I  did  not  remain  in  private  the  same  submissive  wife  that 
I  appear  to  others,  he  would  lose  confidence  in  himself. 
Dear,  the  good  we  do  to  others  is  spoiled  unless  we  efface 
ourselves  so  completely  that  those  we  help  have  no  sense  of 
inferiority.  There  is  a  wonderful  sweetness  in  these  hidden 
sacrifices,  and  what  a  triumph  for  me  in  your  unsuspecting 
praises  of  Louis!  There  can  be  no  doubt  also  that  the  happi- 
ness, the  comfort,  the  hope  of  the  last  two  years  have  restored 
what  misfortune  hardship,  solitude,  and  despondency  had 
robbed  him  of. 

This,  then,  is  the  sum-total  of  my  observations.  At  the 
present  moment  you  love  in  Felipe,  not  your  husband,  but 
yourself.  There  is  truth  in  your  father's  words;  concealed 
by  the  spring  flowers  of  your  passion  lies  all  a  great  lady's 
selfishness.  Ah!  my  child,  how  I  must  love  you  to  speak 
such  bitter  truths! 


574  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Let  me  tell  you,  if  you  will  promise  never  to  breathe  a 
word  of  this  to  the  Baron,  the  end  of  our  talk.  We  had 
been  singing  your  praises  in  every  key,  for  he  soon  discov- 
ered that  I  loved  you  like  a  fondly-cherished  sister,  and 
having  insensibly  brought  him  to  a  confidential  mood,  I 
ventured  to  say: 

"Louise  has  never  yet  had  to  struggle  with  life.  She  has 
been  the  spoiled  child  of  fortune,  and  she  might  yet  have  to 
pay  for  this  were  you  not  there  to  act  the  part  of  father  as 
well  as  lover." 

"Ah!  but  is  it  possible?  ..."  He  broke  off  abruptly, 
like  a  man  who  sees  himself  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  But 
the  exclamation  was  enough  for  me.  No  doubt,  if  you  had 
stayed,  he  would  have  spoken  more  freely  later. 

My  sweet,  think  of  the  day  awaiting  you  when  your  hus- 
band's strength  will  be  exhausted,  when  pleasure  will  have 
turned  to  satiety,  and  he  sees  himself,  I  will  not  say  de- 
graded, but  shorn  of  his  proper  dignity  before  you.  The 
stings  of  conscience  will  then  waken  a  sort  of  remorse  in  him, 
all  the  more  painful  for  you,  because  you  will  feel  yourself 
responsible,  and  you  will  end  by  despising  the  man  whom 
you  have  not  accustomed  yourself  to  respect.  Re  member, 
too,  that  scorn  with  a  woman  is  only  the  earliest  phase  of 
hatred.  You  are  too  noble  and  generous,  I  know,  ever 
to  forget  the  sacrifices  which  Felipe  has  made  for  you;  but 
what  further  sacrifices  will  be  left  for  him  to  make  when  he 
has,  so  to  speak,  served  up  himself  at  the  first  banquet? 
Woe  to  the  man,  as  to  the  woman,  who  has  left  no  desire 
unsatisfied!  All  is  over  then.  To  our  shame  or  our  glory 
— the  point  is  too  nice  for  me  to  decide — it  is  of  love  aione 
that  women  are  insatiable. 

Oh!  Louise,  change  yet,  while  there  is  still  time.  If  you 
would  only  adopt  the  same  course  with  Macumer  that  I  have 
done  with  1'Estorade,  you  might  rouse  the  sleeping  lion  in 
your  husband,  who  is  made  of  the  stuff  of  heroes.  One  might 
almost  say  that  you  grudge  him  his  greatness.  Would  you 
feel  no  pride  in  using  your  power  for  other  ends  than  your 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  575 

own  gratification,  in  awakening  the  genius  of  a  gifted  man, 
as  I  in  raising  to  a  higher  level  one  of  merely  common  parts  ? 

Had  you  remained  with  us,  I  should  still  have  written 
this  letter,  for  in  talking  you  might  have  cut  me  short  or  got 
the  better  of  me  with  your  sharp  tongue.  Bat  I  know  that 
you  will  read  this  thoughtfully  and  weigh  my  warnings. 
Dear  heart,  you  have  everything  in  life  to  make  you  happy, 
do  not  spoil  your  chances;  return  to  Paris,  I  entreat  you,  as 
soon  as  Macumer  comes  back.  The  engrossing  claims  of 
society,  of  which  I  complained,  are  necessary  for  both  of  you; 
otherwise  you  would  spend  your  life  in  mutual  self-absorp- 
tion. A  married  woman  ought  not  to  be  too  lavish  of  her- 
self. The  mother  of  a  family,  who  never  gives  her  house- 
hold an  opportunity  of  missing  her,  runs  the  risk  of  palling 
on  them.  If  I  have  several  children,  as  I  trust  for  my  own 
sake  I  may,  I  assure  you  I  shall  make  a  point  of  reserving 
to  myself  certain  hours  which  shall  be  held  sacred;  even  to 
one's  children  one's  presence  should  not  be  a  matter  of  daily 
bread. 

Farewell,  my  dear  jealous  soul!  Do  you  know  that  many 
women  would  be  highly  flattered  at  having  roused  this  pass- 
ing pang  in  you  ?  Alas!  I  can  only  mourn,  for  what  is  not 
mother  in  me  is  your  dear  friend.  A  thousand  loves.  Make 
what  excuse  you  will  for  leaving;  if  you  are  not  sure  of 
Macumer,  I  am  of  Louis. 


XXXVII 

THE  BARONNE  DE  MACUMER  TO  THE  VICOMTESSE 
DE  L'ESTORADE 

GENOA. 

7j    jfT  BELOVED  BEAUTY— I  was  bitten  with  the 
/I/I       fancy  to  see  something  of  Italy,  and  I  am  delighted 
at  having  carried  off  Macumer,  whose  plans  in 
regard  to  Sardinia  are  postponed. 

This  country  is  simply  ravishing.     The  churches — above 
all,  the  chapels — have  a  seductive,    bewitching  air,'  which 


576  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

must  make  every  female  Protestant  yearn  after  Catholicism. 
Macumer  has  been  received  with  acclamation,  and  they  are 
all  delighted  to  have  made  an  Italian  of  so  distinguished 
a  man.  Felipe  could  have  the  Sardinian  embassy  at  Paris 
if  I  cared  about  it,  for  I  am  made  much  of  at  court. 

If  you  write,  address  your  letters  to  Florence.  I  have  not 
time  now  to  go  into  any  details,  but  I  will  tell  you  the  story 
of  our  travels  whenever  you  come  to  Paris.  We  only  remain 
here  a  week,  and  then  go  on  to  Florence,  taking  Leghorn  on 
the  way.  We  shall  stay  a  month  in  Tuscany  and  a  month 
at  Naples,  so  as  to  reach  Rome  in  November.  Thence  we 
return  home  by  Venice,  where  we  shall  spend  the  first  fort- 
night of  December,  and  arrive  in  Paris,  via  Milan  and  Turin, 
for  January. 

Our  journey  is  a  perfect  honeymoon;  the  sight  of  new 
places  gives  fresh  life  to  our  passion.  Macumer  did  not 
know  Italy  at  all,  and  we  have  begun  with  that  splendid 
Cornice  road,  which  might  be  the  work  of  fairy  architects. 

Gk>od-by,  darling.  Don't  be  angry  if  I  don't  write.  It 
is  impossible  to  get  a  minute  to  one's  self  in  travelling;  my 
whole  time  is  taken  up  with  seeing,  admiring,,  and  realizing 
my  impressions.  But  not  a  word  to  you  of  these  till  memory 
has  given  them  their  proper  atmosphere. 


XXXVIII 

THE    V1COMTESSE   DE    I/ESTORADE   TO   THE   BAKONNE 

DE    MACUMEB 

September. 

DEAR — There  is  lying  for  you  at  Chantepleurs 
a  full  reply  to  the  letter  you  wrote  me  from  Mar- 
seilles. This  honeymoon  journey,  so  far  from 
diminishing  the  fears  I  there  expressed,  makes  me  beg  of 
you  to  get  my  letter  sent  on  from  Nivernais. 

The  Government,  it  is  said,  are  resolved  on  dissolution. 
This  is  unlucky  for  the  Crown,  since  the  last  session  of  this 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  .      577 

loyal  Parliament  would  have  been  devoted  to  the  passing  of 
laws,  essential  to  the  consolidation  of  its  power;  and  it  is  not 
less  so  for  us,  as  Louis  will  not  be  forty  till  the  end  of  1827. 
Fortunately,  however,  my  father  has  agreed  to  stand,  and  he 
will  resign  his  seat  when  the  right  moment  arrives. 

Your  godson  has  fouk  1  out  how  to  walk  without  his  god- 
mother's help.  He  is  altogether  delicious,  and  begins  to 
make  the  prettiest  little  signs  to  me,  which  bring  home 
to  one  that  here  is  really  a  thinking  being,  not  a  mere 
animal  or  sucking  machine.  His  smiles  are  full  of  meaning. 
I  have  been  so  successful  in  my  profession  of  nurse  that  I 
shall  wean  Armand  in  December.  A  year  at  the  breast 
is  quite  enough;  children  who  are  suckled  longer  are  said 
to  grow  stupid,  and  I  am  all  for  popular  sayings. 

You  must  make  a  tremendous  sensation  in  Italy,  my  fair 
one  with  the  golden  locks.  A  thousand  loves. 


XXXIX 

THE  BARONNE  DE  MACUMER  TO  THE  VICOMTESSE 
DE  L'ESTORADE 

rOUR  ATROCIOUS  letter  has  reached  me  here,  the 
steward  having    forwarded  it  by  my  orders.      Oh! 
Eenee  .  .  „  but  I  will  spare  you  the  outburst  of  my 
wounded  feelings,  and  simply  tell  you  the  effect  your  letter 
produced. 

We  had  just  returned  from  a  delightful  reception  given 
in  our  honor  by  the  ambassador,  where  I  appeared  in  all  my 
glory,  and  Macumer  was  completely  carried  away  in  a  frenzy 
of  love  which  I  could  not  describe.  Then  I  read  him  your 
horrible  answer  to  my  letter,  and  I  read  it  sobbing,  at  the 
risk  of  making  a  fright  of  myself.  My  dear  Arab  fell  at  my 
feet,  declaring  that  you  raved.  Then  he  carried  me  off  to 
the  balcony  of  the  palace  where  we  are  staying,  from  which 
we  have  a  view  over  part  of  the  city;  there  he  spoke  to  me 
Vol.  A.  BALZAC — 25 


578  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

words  worthy  of  the  magnificent  moonlight  scene  which  lay 
stretched  before  us.  We  both  speak  Italian  now,  and  his 
love,  told  in  that  voluptuous  tongue,  so  admirably  adapted 
to  the  expression  of  passion,  sounded  in  my  ears  like  the  most 
exquisite  poetry.  He  swore  that,  even  were  you  right  in 
your  predictions,  he  would  not  exchange  for  a  lifetime  a 
single  one  of  our  blessed  nights  or  charming  mornings.  At 
this  reckoning  he  has  already  lived  a  thousand  years.  He 
is  content  to  have  me  for  his  mistress,  and  would  claim 
no  other  title  than  that  of  lover.  So  proud  and  pleased  is 
he  to  see  himself  every  day  the  chosen  of  my  heart  that  were 
Heaven  to  offer  him  the  alternative  between  living  as  you 
would  have  us  do  for  another  thirty  years  with  five  children, 
and  five  years  spent  amid  the  dear  roses  of  our  love,  he  would 
not  hesitate.  He  would  take  my  love,  such  as  it  is,  and 
death. 

While  he  was  whispering  this  in  my  ear,  his  arm  round 
me,  my  head  resting  on  his  shoulder,  the  cries  of  a  bat,  sur- 
prised by  an  owl,  disturbed  us.  This  death-cry  struck  me 
with  such  terror  that  Felipe  carried  me  half -fainting  to  my 
bed.  But  don't  be  alarmed!  Though  this  augury  of  evil 
still  resounds  in  my  soul,  I  am  quite  myself  this  morning. 
As  soon  as  I  was  up,  I  went  to  Felipe,  and,  kneeling  before 
him,  my  eyes  fixed  on  his,  his  hands  clasped  in  mine,  I  said 
to  him: 

"My  love,  I  am  a  child,  and  Renee  may  be  right  after 
all.  It  may  be  only  your  love  that  I  love  in  you;  but  at 
least  I  can  assure  you  that  this  is  the  one  feeling  of  my  heart, 
and  that  I  love  you  as  it  is  given  me  to  love.  But  if  there 
be  aught  in  me,  in  my  lightest  thought  or  deed,  which  jars 
on  your  wishes  or  conception  of  me,  I  implore  you  to  tell 
me,  to  say  what  it  is.  It  will  be  a  joy  to  me  to  hear  you 
and  to  take  your  eyes  as  the  guiding-stars  of  my  life.  Kene'e 
has  frightened  me,  for  she  is  a  true  friend." 

Macumer  could  not  find  voice  to  reply,  tears  choked  him. 

I  can  thank  you  now,  Renee.  But  for  your  letter  I  should 
nut  have  known  the  depths  of  love  in  my  noble,  kingly  Ma- 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  579 

cumer.  Rome  is  the  city  of  love;  it  is  there  that  passion 
should  celebrate  its  feast,  with  art  and  religion  as  con- 
federates. 

At  "Venice  we  shall  find  the  Due  and  Duchesse  de  Soria. 
If  you  write,  address  now  to  Paris,  for  we  shall  leave  Eorae 
in  three  days.  The  ambassador's  was  a  farewell  party. 

P.S. — Dear,  silly  child,  your  letter  only  shows  that  you 
knew  nothing  of  love,  except  theoretically.  Learn  then  that 
love  is  a  quickening  force  which  may  produce  fruits  so  diverse 
that  no  theory  can  embrace  or  co-ordinate  them.  A  word 
this  for  my  little  Professor  with  her  armor  of  stays. 


XL 

THE   COMTESSE   DE   I/ESTORADE   TO  THE   BARONNE 

DE   MACTTMER 

January,  1827. 

It    /TY  FATHER  has  been  elected  to  the  Chamber,  my 

/y/      father-in-law  is  dead,  and  I  am  on  the  point  of  my 

second  confinement;    these  are  the  chief   events 

marking  the  end  of  the  year  for  us.     I  mention  them  at  once, 

lest  the  sight  of  the  black  seal  should  frighten  you. 

My  dear,  your  letter  from  Rome  made  my  flesh  creep. 
You  are  nothing  but  a  pair  of  children.  Felipe  is  either 
a  dissembling  diplomat  or  else  his  love  for  you  is  the  love  a 
man  might  have  for  a  courtesan,  on  whom  he  squanders  his 
all,  knowing  all  the  time  that  she  is  false  to  him.  Enough 
of  this.  You  say  I  rave,  so  I  had  better  hold  my  tongue. 
Only  this  I  would  say,  from  the  comparison  of  our  two  very 
different  destinies  I  draw  this  harsh  moral — Love  not  if  you 
would  be  loved. 

My  dear,  when  Louis  was  elected  to  the  provincial  Coun- 
cil, he  received  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  That  is 
now  nearly  three  years  ago;  and  as  my  father — whom  you 
will  no  doubt  see  in  Paris  during  the  course  of  the  session — 


580  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

has  asked  the  rank  of  Officer  of  the  Legion  for  his  son-in-law, 
I  want  to  know  if  you  will  do  me  the  kindness  to  take  in 
hand  the  bigwig,  whoever  he  may  be,  to  whom  this  patron- 
age belongs,  and  to  keep  an  eye  upon  the  little  affair.  But, 
whatever  you  do,  don't  get  entangled  in  the  concerns  of  my 
honored  father.  The  Comte  de  Maucombe  is  fishing  for  the 
title  of  Marquis  for  himself ;  but  keep  your  good  services  for 
me,  please.  When  Louis  is  a  deputy — next  winter  that  is — 
we  shall  come  to  Paris,  and  then  we  will  move  heaven  and 
earth  to  get  some  Government  appointment  for  him,  so  that 
we  may  be  able  to  save  our  income  by  living  on  his  salary. 
My  father  sits  between  the  centre  and  the  right;  a  title  will 
content  him.  Our  family  was  distinguished  even  in  the  days 
of  King  Rene,  and  Charles  X.  will  hardly  say  no  to  a  Mau- 
combe; but  what  I  fear  is  that  my  father  may  take  it  into  his 
head  to  ask  some  favor  for  my  younger  brother.  Now,  if  the 
marquisate  is  dangled  out  of  his  reach,  he  will  have  no 
thoughts  to  spare  from  himself. 

January  15th. 

AH!  Louise,  I  have  been  in  hell.  If  I  can  bear  to  tell 
you  of  my  anguish,  it  is  because  you  are  another  self;  even 
so,  I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  live  again 
in  thought  those  five  ghastly  days.  The  mere  word  "con- 
vulsions" makes  my  very  heart  sick.  Five  days!  to  me  they 
were  five  centuries  of  torture.  A  mother  who  has  not  been 
through  this  martyrdom  does  not  know  what  suffering  is. 
So  frenzied  was  I  that  I  even  envied  you,  who  never  had 
a  child! 

The  evening  before  that  terrible  day  the  weather  was 
close,  almost  hot,  and  I  thought  my  little  Armand  was 
affected  by  it.  Generally  so  sweet  and  caressing,  he  was  peev- 
ish, cried  for  nothing,  wanted  to  play,  and  then  broke  his 
toys.  Perhaps  this  sort  of  fractiousness  is  the  usual  sign 
of  approaching  illness  with  children.  While  I  was  wonder- 
ing about  it,  I  noticed  Armand's  cheeks  flush,  but  this  I  set 
down  to  teething,  for  he  is  cutting  four  large  teeth  at  once, 
So  I  put  him  to  bed  beside  me,  and  kept  constantly  waking 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  581 

through  the  night.  He  was  a  little  feverish,  but  not  enough 
to  make  me  uneasy,  mj  mind  being  still  full  of  the  teething. 
Toward  morning  he  cried  "Mamma!"  and  asked  by  signs  for 
something  to  drink;  but  the  cry  was  spasmodic,  and  there 
were  convulsive  twitchings  in  the  limbs,  which  turned  me  to 
ice.  I  jumped  out  of  bed  to  fetch  him  a  drink.  Imagine 
my  horror  when,  on  my  handing  him  the  cup,  he  remained 
motionless,  only  repeating  "Mamma!"  in  that  strange,  un- 
familiar voice,  which  was  indeed  by  this  time  hardly  a  voice 
at  all.  I  took  his  hand,  but  it  did  not  respond  to  my  press- 
ure; it  was  quite  stiff.  I  put  the  cup  to  his  lips;  the  poor 
little  fellow  gulped  down  three  or  four  mouthfuls  in  a  con- 
vulsive manner  that  was  terrible  to  see,  and  the  water  made 
a  strange  sound  in  his  throat.  He  clung  to  me  desperately, 
and  I  saw  his  eyes  roll,  as  though  some  hidden  force  within 
were  pulling  at  them,  till  only  the  whites  were  visible;  his 
limbs  were  turning  rigid.  I  screamed  aloud,  and  Louis 
came. 

"A  doctor!  quick!  ...  he  is  dying,"  I  cried. 

Louis  vanished,  and  my  poor  Armand  again  gasped, 
"Mamma!  Mamma!"  The  next  moment  he  lost  all  con- 
sciousness of  his  mother's  existence.  The  pretty  veins  on 
his  forehead  swelled,  and  the  convulsions  began.  For  a 
whole  hour  before  the  doctors  came,  I  held  in  my  arms  that 
merry  baby,  all  lilies  and  roses,  the  blossom  of  my  life,  my 
pride,  and  my  joy,  lifeless  as  a  piece  of  wood;  and  his  eyes! 
I  cannot  think  of  them  without  horror.  My  pretty  Armand 
was  a  mere  mummy — black,  shrivelled,  misshapen. 

A  doctor,  two  doctors,  brought  from  Marseilles  by  Louis, 
hovered  about  like  birds  of  ill  omen;  it  made  me  shudder  to 
look  at  them.  One  spoke  of  brain  fever,  the  other  saw  noth- 
ing but  an  ordinary  case  of  convulsions  in  infancy.  Our  own 
country  doctor  seemed  to  me  to  have  the  most  sense,  for  he 
offered  no  opinion.  "It's  teething,"  said  the  second  doctor. 
—"Fever,"  said  the  first.  Finally  it  was  agreed  to  put 
leeches  on  his  neck  and  ice  on  his  head.  It  seemed  to  me 
like  death.  To  look  on,  to  see  a  corpse,  all  purple  or  black, 


582  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

and  not  a  cry,  not  a  movement  from  this  creature  but  now 
so  full  of  life  and  sound — it  was  horrible ! 

At  one  moment  I  lost  my  head,  and  gave  a  sort  of  hys- 
terical laugh,  as  I  saw  the  pretty  neck  which  I  used  to 
devour  with  kisses,  with  the  leeches  feeding  on  it,  and  his 
darling  head  in  a  cap  of  ice.  My  dear,  we  had  to  cut  those 
lovely  curls,  of  which  we  were  so  proud  and  with  which  you 
used  to  play,  in  order  to  make  room  for  the  ice.  The  con- 
vulsions returned  every  ten  minutes  with  the  regularity  of 
labor  pains,  and  then  the  poor  baby  writhed  and  twisted, 
now  white,  now  violet.  His  supple  limbs  clattered  like  wood 
as  they  struck.  And  this  unconscious  flesh  was  the  being 
who  smiled  and  prattled,  and  used  to  say  Mamma!  At  the 
thought,  a  storm  of  agony  swept  tumultuously  over  my  soul, 
like  the  sea  tossing  in  a  hurricane.  It  seemed  as  though  every 
tie  which  binds  a  child  to  its  mother's  heart  were  strained  to 
rending.  My  mother,  who  might  have  given  me  help,  ad- 
vice, or  comfort,  was  in  Paris.  Mothers,  it  is  my  belief, 
know  more  than  doctors  do  about  convulsions. 

After  four  days  and  nights  of  suspense  and  fear,  which 
almost  killed  me,  the  doctors  were  unanimous  in  advising 
the  application  of  a  horrid  ointment,  which  would  produce 
open  sores.  Sores  on  my  Armand !  who  only  five  days  be- 
fore was  playing  about,  and  laughing,  and  trying  to  say 
"  Godmother !"  I  would  not  have  it  done,  preferring  to 
trust  to  nature.  Louis,  who  believes  in  doctors,  scolded 
me.  A  man  remains  the  same  through  everything.  But 
there  are  moments  when  this  terrible  disease  takes  the  like- 
ness of  death,  and  in  one  of  these  it  seemed  borne  in  upon 
me  that  this  hateful  remedy  was  the  salvation  of  Armand. 
Louise,  the  skin  was  so  dry,  so  rough  and  parched,  that  the 
ointment  would  not  act.  Then  I  broke  into  weeping,  and 
my  tears  fell  so  long  and  so  fast  that  the  bedside  was  wet 
through.  And  the  doctors  were  at  dinner! 

Seeing  myself  alone  with  the  child,  I  stripped  him  of  all 
medical  appliances,  and  seizing  him  like  a  mad  woman, 
pressed  him  to  my  bosom,  laying  my  forehead  against  his, 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  583 

and  beseeching  God  to  grant  him  the  life  which  I  was  striv- 
ing to  pass  into  his  veins  from  mine.  For  some  minutes  I 
held  him  thus,  longing  to  die  with  him,  so  that  neither  life 
nor  death  might  part  us.  Dear,  I  felt  the  limbs  relaxing; 
the  writhings  ceased,  the  child  stirred,  and  the  ghastly, 
corpse-like  tints  faded  away!  I  screamed,  just  as  I  did  when 
he  was  taken  ill;  the  doctors  hurried  up,  and  I  pointed  to 
Arinand. 

"He  is  saved!"  exclaimed  the  oldest  of  them. 

W  hat  music  in  those  words !  The  gates  of  heaven  opened ! 
And,  in  fact,  two  hours  later  Armand  came  back  to  life;  but 
I  was  utterly  crushed,  and  it  was  only  the  healing  power  of 
joy  which  saved  me  from  a  serious  illness.  My  God!  by 
wliat  tortures  do  you  bind  a  mother  to  her  child!  To  fasten 
him  to  our  heart,  need  the  nails  be  driven  into  the  very 
quick?  Was  I  not  mother  enough  before?  I,  who  wept 
tears  of  joy  over  his  broken  syllables  and  tottering  steps, 
who  spent  hours  together  planning  how  best  to  perform  my 
duty,  and  fit  myself  for  the  sweet  post  of  mother?  Why 
these  horrors,  these  ghastly  scenes,  for  a  mother  who  already 
idolized  her  child? 

As  I  write,  our  little  Armand  is  playing,  shouting,  laugh- 
ing. What  can  be  the  cause  of  this  terrible  disease  with 
children?  Yainly  do  I  try  to  puzzle  it  out,  remembering 
that  I  am  again  with  child.  Is  it  teething?  Is  it  some 
peculiar  process  in  the  brain?  Is  there  something  wrong 
with  the  nervous  system  of  children  who  are  subject  to  con- 
vulsions? All  these  thoughts  disquiet  me,  in  view  alike  of 
the  present  and  the  future.  Our  country  doctor  holds  to  the 
theory  of  nervous  trouble  produced  by  teething.  I  would 
give  every  tooth  in  my  head  to  see  little  Armand 's  all 
through.  The  sight  of  one  of  those  little  white  pearls  peep- 
ing out  of  the  swollen  gum  brings  a  cold  sweat  over  me  now. 
The  heroism  with  which  the  little  angel  bore  his  sufferings 
proves  to  me  that  he  will  be  his  mother's  son.  A  look  from 
him  goes  to  my  very  heart. 

Medical  science  can  give  no  satisfactory  explanation  as  to 


584  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

the  origin  of  this  sort  of  tetanus,  which  passes  off  as  rapidly 
as  it  comes  on,  and  can  apparently  be  neither  guarded  against 
nor  cured.  One  thing  alone,  as  I  said  before,  is  certain,  that 
it  is  hell  for  a  mother  to  see  her  child  in  convulsions.  How 
passionately  do  I  clasp  him  to  my  heart!  I  could  walk  for- 
ever with  him  in  my  arms ! 

To  have  suffered  all  this  only  six  weeks  before  my  con- 
finement made  it  much  worse;  I  feared  for  the  coming  child. 
Farewell,  my  dear  beloved.  Don't  wish  for  a  child — there 
is  the  sum  and  substance  of  my  letter  1 


XLI 

THE  BARONNE  DE  MACUMER  TO  THE  TICOMTESSE 
DE  L'ESTORADE 

PARIS. 

~W~\OOR  SWEET — Macumer  and  I  forgave  you  all  your 

/~~      naughtiness  when  we  heard  of  your  terrible  trouble. 

I  thrilled   with   pain  as  I  read   the   details  of   that 

double  agony,  and  there  seem  compensations  now  in  being 

childless. 

I  am  writing  at  once  to  tell  you  that  Louis  has  been  pro- 
moted. He  can  now  wear  the  ribbon  of  an  officer  of  the 
Legion,  You  are  a  lucky  woman,  Eenee,  and  you  will  prob- 
ably have  a  little  girl,  since  that  used  to  be  your  wish! 

The  marriage  of  my  brother  with  Mile,  de  Mortsauf  was 
celebrated  on  our  return.  Our  gracious  King,  who  really 
is  extraordinarily  kind,  has  given  my  brother  the  reversion 
of  the  post  of  First  Gentleman  of  the  Chamber,  which  his 
father-in-law  now  fills,  on  the  one  condition  that  the  scutch- 
eon of  the  Mortsaufs  should  be  placed  side  by  side  with  that 
of  the  Lenoncourts. 

"The  office  ought  to  go  with  the  title,"  he  said  to  the 
Due  de  Lenoncourt-Givry. 

My  father  is  justified  a  hundred-fold.  Without  the  help 
of  my  fortune  nothing  of  all  this  could  have  taken  place. 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  585 

My  father  and  mother  came  from  Madrid  for  the  wedding, 
and  return  there,  after  the  reception  which  I  give  to-morrow 
for  the  bride  and  bridegroom. 

The  carnival  will  be  a  very  gay  one.  The  Due  and 
Duchesse  de  Soria  are  in  Paris,  and  their  presence  makes 
me  a  little  uneasy.  Marie  Heredia  is  certainly  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  women  in  Europe,  and  I  don't  like  the  way 
Felipe  looks  at  her.  Therefore  I  am  doubly  lavish  of  sweet- 
ness and  caresses.  Every  look  and  gesture  speak  the  words 
which  I  am  careful  my  lips  should  not  utter,  "She  could  not 
love  like  this!"  Heaven  knows  how  lovely  and  fascinating 
I  am!  Yesterday  Mme.  de  Maufrigneuse  said  to  me: 

''Dear  child,  who  can  compete  with  you?" 

Then  I  keep  Felipe  so  well  amused  that  his  sister-in-law 
must  seem  as  lively  as  a  Spanish  cow  in  comparison.  I  am 
the  less  sorry  that  a  little  Abencerrage  is  not  on  his  way, 
because  the  Duchess  will  no  doubt  stay  in  Paris  over  her 
confinement,  and  she  won't  be  a  beauty  any  l6nger.  If  the 
baby  is  a  boy,  it  will  be  called  Felipe,  in  honor  of  the  exile. 
An  unkind  chance  has  decreed  that  I  shall,  a  second  time, 
serve  as  godmother. 

Good-by,  dear.  I  shall  go  to  Chantepleurs  early  this 
year,  for  our  Italian  tour  was  shockingly  expensive.  I 
shall  leave  about  the  end  of  March,  and  retire  to  econo- 
mize in  Nivernais.  Besides,  I  am  tired  of  Paris.  Felipe 
sighs,  as  I  do,  after  the  beautiful  quiet  of  the  park,  our 
cool  meadows,  and  our  Loire,  with  its  sparkling  sands, 
peerless  among  rivers.  Chantepleurs  will  seem  delightful 
to  me  after  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  Italy;  for,  after  all, 
splendor  becomes  wearisome,  and  a  lover's  glance  has  more 
beauty  than  a  capo  d1  opera  or  a  bel  quadro  ! 

We  shall  expect  you  there.  Don't  be  afraid  that  I  shall 
be  jealous  again.  You  are  free  to  take  what  soundings  you 
please  in  Macumer's  heart,  and  fish  up  all  the  interjections 
and  doubts  you  can.  I  am  supremely  indifferent.  Since 
that  day  at  Eome,  Felipe's  love  for  me  has  grown.  He 
told  me  yesterday  (he  is  looking  over  my  shoulder  now) 


586  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

that  his  sister-in-law,  the  Princess  HereMia,  his  destined 
bride  of  old,  the  dream  of  his  youth,  had  no  brains.  Oh! 
ray  dear,  I  am  worse  than  a  ballet-dancer!  If  you  knew  what 
joy  that  slighting  remark  gave  me !  I  have  pointed  out  to 
Felipe  that  she  does  not  speak  French  correctly.  She  says 
esemple  for  exemple,  sain  for  cinq,  cheu  for  je.  She  is  beau- 
tiful of  course,  but  quite  without  charm  or  the  slightest 
scintilla  of  wit.  When  a  compliment  is  paid  her,  she 
looks  at  you  as  though  she  didn't  know  what  to  do  with 
such  a  strange  thing.  Felipe,  being  what  he  is,  could  not 
have  lived  two  months  with  Marie  after  his  marriage.  Don 
Fernand,  the  Due  de  Soria,  suits  her  very  well.  He  has 
generous  instincts,  but  it's  easy  to  see  he  has  been  a 
spoiled  child.  I  am  tempted  to  be  naughty  and  make 
you  laugh;  but  I  won't  draw  the  long  bow.  Ever  so 
much  love,  darling. 


XLII 

RENEE   TO   LOUISE 

7i    0"Y  LITTLE    GIRL    is   two   months   old.     She   is 
/ \//     called  Jeanne- Athe'nai's,    and   has   for  godmother 
and   godfather    my   mother,    and    an    old    grand - 
uncle   of   Louis' So 

As  soon  as  I  possibly  can,  I  shall  start  for  my  visit  to 
Chantepleurs,  since  you  are  not  afraid  of  a  nursing  mother. 
Your  godson  can  say  your  name  now;  he  calls  it  Matoumer, 
for  he  can't  say  c  properly.  You  will  be  quite  delighted 
with  him.  He  has  got  all  his  teeth,  and  eats  meat  now 
like  a  big  boy;  he  is  all  over  the  place,  trotting  about  like 
a  little  mouse;  but  I  watch  him  all  the  time  with  anxious 
eyes,  and  it  makes  me  miserable  that  I  cannot  keep  him 
by  me  when  I  am  laid  up.  The  time  is  more  than  usually 
long  with  me,  as  the  doctors  consider  some  special  precau- 
tions necessary.  Alas!  my  child,  habit  does  not  inure  one 


LETTERS    OF   TWO   BRIDES  587 

to  child-bearing.  There  are  the  same  old  discomforts  and 
misgivings.  However  (don't  show  this  to  Felipe),  this  little 
girl  takes  after  me,  and  she  may  yet  cut  out  your  Armand. 

My  father  thought  Felipe  looking  very  thin,  and  my  dear 
pet  also  not  quite  so  blooming.  Yet  the  Due  and  Duchesse 
de  Soria  have  gone;  not  a  loophole  for  jealousy  is  left!  Is 
there  any  trouble  which  you  are  hiding  from  me  ?  Your 
letter  is  neither  so  long  nor  so  full  of  loving  thoughts  as 
usual.  Is  this  only  a  whim  of  my  dear  whimsical  friend  ? 

I  am  running  on  too  long.  My  nurse  is  angry  with  me 
for  writing,  and  Mile.  Athenai's  de  1'Estorade  wants  her 
dinner.  Farewell,  then;  write  me  some  nice  long  letters. 


XLIII 

MME.    DE   MACTJMER    TO   THE    COMTESSE   DE   I/ESTORADE 

TT\  OR  THE  FIRST  time  in  my  life,  my  dear  Benee,  I 
/j  have  been  alone  and  crying.  I  was  sitting  under  a 
willow,  on  a  wooden  bench  by  the  side  of  the  long 
Chantepleurs  marsh.  The  view  there  is  charming,  but  it 
needs  some  merry  children  to  complete  it,  and  I  wait  for 
you.  I  have  been  married  nearly  three  years,  and  no 
child!  The  thought  of  your  quiverful  drove  me  to  ex- 
plore my  heart. 

And  this  is  what  I  find  there.  "Oh!  if  I  had  to  suffer 
a  hundred-fold  what  Renee  suffered  when  my  godson  was 
born;  if  I  had  to  see  my  child  in  convulsions,  even  so 
would  to  (rod  that  I  might  have  a  cherub  of  my  own,  like 
your  Athenais!"  I  can  see  her  from  here  in  my  mind's 
eye,  and  I  know  she  is  beautiful  as  the  day,  for  you  tell 
me  nothing  about  her — that  is  just  like  my  Eende !  I  be- 
lieve you  divine  my  trouble. 

Each  time  my  hopes  are  disappointed,  I  fall  a  prey  for 
some  days  to  the  blackest  melancholy.  Then  I  compose 


588  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

sad  elegies.  When  shall  I  embroider  little  caps  and  sew 
lace  edgings  to  encircle  a  tiny  head  ?  When  choose  the 
cambric  for  the  baby-clothes?  Shall  I  never  hear  baby 
lips  shout  "Mamma,"  and  have  my  dress  pulled  by  a  teas- 
ing despot  whom  my  heart  adores?  Are  there  to  be  no 
wheel-marks  of  a  little  carriage  on  the  gravel,  no  broken 
toys  littered  about  the  courtyard?  Shall  I  never  visit  the 
toy-shops,  as  mothers  dox  to  buy  swords,  and  dolls,  and 
baby -houses?  And  will  it  never  be  mine  to  watch  the 
unfolding  of  a  precious  life — another  Felipe,  only  more 
dear?  I  would  have  a  son,  if  only  to  learn  how  a  lover 
can  be  more  to  one  in  his  second  self. 

My  park  and  castle  are  cold  and  desolate  to  me.  A 
childless  woman  is  a  monstrosity  of  nature;  we  exist  only 
to  be  mothers.  Oh!  my  sage  in  woman's  livery,  how  well 
you  have  conned  the  book  of  life!  Everywhere,  too,  bar- 
renness is  a  dismal  thing.  My  life  is  a  little  too  much  like 
one  of  Gessner's  or  Florian's  sheepfolds,  which  Eivarol 
longed  to  see  invaded  by  a  wolf.  I  too  have  it  in  me  to 
make  sacrifices!  There  are  forces  in  me,  I  feel,  which 
Felipe  has  no  use  for;  and  if  I  am  not  to  be  a  mother, 
I  must  be  allowed  to  indulge  myself  in  some  romantic 
sorrow. 

I  have  just  made  this  remark  to  my  belated  Moor,  and  it 
brought  tears  to  his  eyesc  He  cannot  stand  any  joking  on 
his  love,  so  I  let  him  off  easily,  and  only  called  him  a  pal- 
adin of  folly. 

At  times  I  am  seized  with  a  desire  to  go  on  pilgrimage, 
to  bear  my  longings  to  the  shrine  of  some  madonna  or  to  a 
watering-place.  Next  winter  I  shall  take  medical  advice.  I 
am  too  much  enraged  with  myself  to  write  more.  Good-by. 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  589 

XLIV 

THE    SAME    TO   THE    SAME 

PARIS,  1829. 

yj  WHOLE  YEAR  passed,  my  dear,  without  a  letter! 
S~W  What  does  this  mean?  I  am  a  little  hurt.  Do  you 
suppose  that  your  Louis,  who  comes  to  see  me  almost 
every  alternate  day,  makes  up  for  you  ?  It  is  not  enough  to 
know  that  you  are  well  and  that  everything  prospers  with 
you;  for  I  love  you,  Kene*e,  and  I  want  to  know  what  you 
are  feeling  and  thinking  of,  just  as  I  say  everything  to 
you,  at  the  risk  of  being  scolded,  or  censured,  or  misun- 
derstood. Your  silence  and  seclusion  in  the  country,  at  a 
time  when  you  might  be  in  Paris  enjoying  all  the  Parlia- 
mentary honors  of  the  Comte  de  1'Estorade,  cause  me  seri- 
ous anxiety.  You  know  that  your  husband's  "gift  of  the 
gab"  and  unsparing  zeal  have  won  for  him  quite  a  position 
here,  and  he  will  doubtless  receive  some  very  good  post 
when  the  session  is  over.  Pray,  do  you  spend  your  life 
writing  him  letters  of  advice?  Numa  was  not  so  far  re- 
moved from  his  Egeria. 

Why  did  you  not  take  this  opportunity  of  seeing  Paris? 
I  might  have  enjoyed  your  company  for  four  months.  Louis 
told  me  yesterday  that  you  were  coming  to  fetch  him,  and 
would  have  your  third  confinement  in  Paris — you  terrible 
mother  Gigogne!  After  bombarding  Louis  with  queries, 
exclamations,  and  regrets,  I  at  last  defeated  his  strategy  so 
far  as  to  discover  that  his  grandunele,  the  godfather  of 
Athenais,  is  very  ill.  Now  I  believe  that  you,  like  a 
careful  mother,  would  be  quite  equal  to  angling  with  the 
member's  speeches  and  fame  for  a  fat  legacy  from  your 
husband's  last  remaining  relative  on  the  mother's  side. 
Keep  your  mind  easy,  my  Rende — we  are  all  at  work  for 
Louis,  Lenoncourts,  Chaulieus,  and  the  whole  band  of 
Mme.  de  Macumer's  followers.  Martignac  will  probably 


590  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

put  him  into  the  audit  department.  But  if  you  won't  tell 
me  why  you  bury  yourself  in  the  country,  I  shall  be  cross. 
Tell  me,  are  you  afraid  that  the  political  wisdom  of  the 
house  of  1'Estorade  should  seem  to  centre  in  you?  Or  is 
it  the  uncle's  legacy?  Perhaps  you  were  afraid  you  would 
be  less  to  your  children  in  Paris?  Ah!  what  I  would  give 
to  know  whether,  after  all,  you  were  not  simply  too  vain  to 
show  yourself  in  Paris  for  the  first  time  in  your  present  con- 
dition! Vain  thing!  Farewell. 


XLV 

RENEE   TO   LOUISE 

rOU  COMPLAIN  of  my  silence;  have  you  forgotten, 
then,  those  two  little  brown  heads,  at  once  my  sub- 
jects and  my  tyrants  ?  And  as  to  staying  at  home, 
you  have  yourself  hit  upon  several  of  my  reasons.  Apart 
from  the  condition  of  our  dear  uncle,  I  didn't  want  to  drag 
with  me  to  Paris  a  boy  of  four  and  a  little  girl  who  will 
soon  be  three,  when  I  am  again  expecting  my  confinement. 
I  had  no  intention  of  troubling  you  and  upsetting  your 
household  with  such  a  party.  I  did  not  care  to  appear, 
looking  my  worst,  in  the  brilliant  circle  over  which  you 
preside,  and  I  detest  life  in  hotels  and  lodgings. 

When  I  come  to  spend  the  session  in  Paris,  it  will  be  in 
my  own  house.  Louis's  uncle,  when  he  heard  of  the  rank 
his  grandnephew  had  received,  made  me  a  present  of  two 
hundred  thousand  francs  (the  half  of  his  savings)  with 
which  to  buy  a  house  in  Paris,  and  I  have  charged  Louis 
to  find  one  in  your  neighborhood.  My  mother  has  given 
me  thirty  thousand  francs  for  the  furnishing,  and  I  shall 
do  my  best  not  to  disgrace  the  dear  sister  of  my  election — 
no  pun  intended. 

I  am  grateful  to  you  for  having  already  done  so  much  at 
Court  for  Louis.  But  though  M.-  de  Bourmont  and  M.  cle 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  691 

Polignac  have  paid  him  the  compliment  of  asking  him  to 
join  their  ministry,  I  do  not  wish  so  conspicuous  a  place 
for  him.  It  would  commit  him  too  much;  and  I  prefer 
the  Audit  Office  because  it  is  permanent.  Our  affairs  here 
are  in  very  good  hands;  so  you  need  not  fear;  as  soon  as 
the  steward  has  mastered  the  details,  I  will  come  and  sup- 
port Louis. 

As  for  writing  long  letters  nowadays,  how  can  I  ?  This 
one,  in  which  I  want  to  describe  to  you  the  daily  routine 
of  my  life,  will  be  a  week  on  the  stocks.  Who  can  tell 
but  Armand  may  lay  hold  of  it  to  make  caps  for  his  regi- 
ments drawn  up  on  my  carpet,  or  vessels  for  the  fleets 
which  sail  his  bath!  A  single  day  will  serve  as  a  sample 
of  the  rest,  for  they  are  all  exactly  alike,  and  their  charac- 
teristics reduce  themselves  to  two — either  the  children  are 
well  or  they  are  not.  For  me,  in  this  solitary  grange,  it 
is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  hours  become  minutes,  or 
minutes  hours,  according  to  the  children's  health. 

If  I  have  some  delightful  hours,  it  is  when  they  are. 
asleep  and  I  am  no  longer  needed  to  rock  the  one  or 
soothe  the  other  with  stories.  When  I  have  them  sleep- 
ing by  my  side,  I  say  to  myself,  "Nothing  can  go  wrong 
now."  The  fact  is,  my  sweet,  every  mother  spends  her 
time,  so  soon  as  her  children  are  out  of  her  sight,  in  im- 
agining dangers  for  them.  Perhaps  it  is  Armand  seizing 
the  razors  to  play  with,  or  his  coat  taking  fire,  or  a  snake 
biting  him,  or  he  might  tumble  in  running  and  start  an 
abscess  on  his  head,  or  he  might  drown  himself  in  a  pond. 
A  mother's  life,  you  see,  is  one  long  succession  of  dramas, 
now  soft  and  tender,  now  terrible.  Not  an  hour  but  has 
its  joys  and  fears. 

But  at  night,  in  my  room,  comes  the  hour  for  waking 
dreams,  when  I  plan  oat  their  future,  which  shines  brightly 
in  the  smile  of  the  guardian  angel  watching  over  their  beds. 
Sometimes  Armand  calls  me  in  his  sleep;  I  kiss  his  forehead 
(without  rousing  him),  then  his  sister's  feet,  and  watch  them 
both  lying  in  their  beauty.  These  are  my  merry-makings! 


592  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Yesterday,  it  must  have  been  our  guardian  angel  who  roused 
me  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  summoned  me  in  fear  to 
Athenais's  cradle.  Her  head  was  too  low,  and  I  found  Ar- 
mand  all  uncovered,  his  feet  purple  with  cold. 

"Darling  mother!"  he  cried,  rousing  up  and  flinging  his 
arms  round  me. 

There,  dear,  is  one  of  our  night  scenes  for  you. 

How  important  it  is  for  a  mother  to  have  her  children  by 
her  side  at  night!  It  is  not  for  a  nurse,  however  careful  she 
may  be,  to  take  them  up,  comfort  them,  and  hush  them  to 
sleep  again,  when  some  horrid  nightmare  has  disturbed  them. 
For  they  have  their  dreams,  and  the  task  of  explaining  away 
one  of  these  dread  visions  of  the  night  is  the  more  arduous 
because  the  child  is  scared,  stupid,  and  only  half  awake.  It 
is  a  mere  interlude  in  the  unconsciousness  of  slumber. 
In  this  way  I  have  come  to  sleep  so  lightly  that  I  can  see 
my  little  pair  and  hear  them  stirring,  through  the  veil  of 
my  eyelids.  A  sigh  or  a  rustle  wakens  me.  For  me,  the 
demon  of  convulsions  is  ever  crouching  by  their  beds. 

So  much  for  the  nights;  with  the  first  twitter  of  the  birds 
my  babies  begin  to  stir.  Through  the  mists  of  dispersing 
sleep,  their  chatter  blends  with  the  warblings  that  fill  the 
morning  air,  or  with  the  swallows'  noisy  debates — little  cries 
of  joy  or  woe,  which  make  their  way  to  my  heart  rather  than 
my  ears.  While  Nais  struggles  to  get  at  me,  making  the 
passage  from  her  cradle  to  my  bed  on  all  fours  or  with  stag- 
gering steps,  Armand  climbs  up  with  the  agility  of  a  monkey, 
and  has  his  arms  round  me.  Then  the  merry  couple  turn  my 
bed  into  a  playground,  where  mother  lies  at  their  mercy. 
The  baby-girl  pulls  my  hair,  and  would  take  to  sucking 
again,  while  Armand  stands  guard  over  my  breast,  as  though 
defending  his  property.  Their  funny  ways,  their  peals  of 
laughter,  are  too  much  for  me,  and  put  sleep  fairly  to  flight. 

Then  we  play  the  ogress  game;  mother  ogress  eats  up  the 
white,  soft  flesh  with  hugs,  and  rains  kisses  on  those  rosy 
shoulders  and  eyes  brimming  over  with  saucy  mischief;  we 
have  little  jealous  tiffs  too,  so  pretty  to  see.  It  has  hap- 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  593 

pened  to  me,  dear,  to  take  up  my  stockings  at  eight  o'clock 
and  be  still  barefooted  at  nine ! 

Then  comes  the  getting  up.  The  operation  of  dressing 
begins.  I  slip  on  my  dressing-gown,  turn  up  my  sleeves, 
and  don  the  mackintosh  apron;  with  Mary's  assistance,  I  wash 
and  scrub  my  two  little  blossoms.  I  am  sole  arbiter  of  the 
temperature  of  the  bath,  for  a  good  half  of  children's  crying 
and  whimpering  comes  from  mistakes  here.  The  moment 
has  arrived  for  paper  fleets  and  glass  ducks,  since  the  only 
way  to  get  children  thoroughly  washed  is  to  keep  them  well 
amused.  If  you  knew  the  diversions  that  have  to  be  in- 
vented before  these  despotic  sovereigns  will  permit  a  soft 
sponge  to  be  passed  over  every  nook  and  cranny,  you  would 
be  awestruck  at  the  amount  of  ingenuity  and  intelligence 
demanded  by  the  maternal  profession  when  one  takes  it  se- 
riously. Prayers,  scoldings,  promises,  are  alike  in  requi- 
sition; above  all,  the  jugglery  must  be  so  dexterous  that 
it  defies  detection.  The  case  would  be  desperate  had  not 
Providence  to  the  cunning  of  the  child  matched  that  of  the 
mother.  A  child  is  a  diplomatist,  only  to  be  mastered,  like 
the  diplomatists  of  the  great  world,  through  his  passions! 
Happily,  it  takes  little  to  make  these  cherubs  laugh;  the  fall 
of  a  brush,  a  piece  of  soap  slipping  from  the  hand,  and  what 
merry  shouts!  And  if  our  triumphs  are  dearly  bought,  still 
triumphs  they  are,  though  hidden  from  mortal  eye.  Even 
the  father  knows  nothing  of  it  all.  None  but  God  and  His 
angels — and  perhaps  you — can  fathom  the  glances  of  satisfac- 
tion which  Mary  and  I  exchange  when  the  little  creatures' 
toilet  is  at  last  concluded,  and  they  stand,  spotless  and  shin- 
ing, amid  a  chaos  of  soap,  sponges,  combs,  basins,  blotting- 
paper,  flannel,  and  all  the  nameless  litter  of  a  true  English 
"nursery." 

For  I  am  so  far  a  convert  as  to  admit  that  English  women 
have  a  talent  for  this  department.  True,  they  look  upon  the 
child  only  from  the  point  of  view  of  material  well-being;  but 
where  this  is  concerned,  their  arrangements  are  admirable. 
My  children  shall  always  be  bare-legged  and  wear  woollen 


694  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

socks.  There  shall  be  no  swaddling  or  bandages;  on  the 
other  hand,  they  shall  never  be  left  alone.  The  helplessness 
of  the  French  infant  in  its  swaddling-bands  means  the  lib- 
erty of  the  nurse — that  is  the  whole  explanation.  A  mother, 
who  is  really  a  mother,  is  never  free. 

There  is  my  answer  to  your  question  why  I  do  not  write. 
Besides  the  management  of  the  estate,  I  have  the  upbringing 
of  two  children  on  my  hands. 

The  art  of  motherhood  involves  much  silent,  unobtrusive 
self-denial,  an  hourly  devotion  which  finds  no  detail  too 
minute.  The  soup  warming  before  the  fire  must  be  watched. 
Am  I  the  kind  of  woman,  do  you  suppose,  to  shirk  such 
cares?  The  humblest  task  may  earn  a  rich  harvest  of  affec- 
tion. How  pretty  is  a  child's  laugh  when  he  finds  the  food 
to  his  liking!  Armand  has  a  way  of  nodding  his  head  when 
he  is  pleased  that  is  worth  a  lifetime  of  adoration.  How 
could  I  leave  to  any  one  else  the  privilege  and  delight,  as 
well  as  the  responsibility,  of  blowing  on  the  spoonful  of  soup 
which  is  too  hot  for  my  little  Nais,  my  nursling  of  seven 
months  ago,  who  still  remembers  my  breast?  When  a  nurse 
has  allowed  a  child  to  burn  its  tongue  and  lips  with  scalding 
food,  she  tells  the  mother,  who  hurries  up  to  see  what  is 
wrong,  that  the  child  cried  from  hunger.  How  could  a 
mother  sleep  in  peace  with  the  thought  that  a  breath,  less 
pure  than  her  own,  has  cooled  her  child's  food — the  mother 
whom  Nature  has  made  the  direct  vehicle  of  food  to  infant 
lips.  To  mince  a  chop  for  Nais,  who  has  just  cut  her  last 
teeth,  and  mix  the  meat,  cooked  to  a  turn,  with  potatoes, 
is  a  work  of  patience,  and  there  are  times,  indeed,  when 
none  but  a  mother  could  succeed  in  making  an  impatient 
child  go  through  with  its  meal. 

No  number  of  servants,  then,  and  no  English  nurse  can 
dispense  a  mother  from  taking  the  field  in  person  in  that 
daily  contest,  where  gentleness  alone  should  grapple  with 
the  little  griefs  and  pains  of  childhood.  Louise,  the  care  of 
these  innocent  darlings  is  a  work  to  engage  the  whole  soul. 
To  whose  hand  and  eyes,  but  one's  own,  intrust  the  task  of 


595 

feeding,  dressing,  and  putting  to  bed?  Broadly  speaking, 
a  crying  child  is  the  unanswerable  condemnation  of  mother 
or  nurse,  except  when  the  cry  is  the  outcome  of  natural 
pain.  Now  that  I  have  two  to  look  after  (and  a  third  on  the 
road),  they  occupy  all  my  thoughts.  Even  you,  whom  I 
love  so  dearly,  have  become  a  memory  to  me. 

My  own  dressing  is  not  always  completed  by  two  o'clock. 
I  have  no  faith  in  mothers  whose  rooms  are  in  apple-pie 
order,  and  who  themselves  might  have  stepped  out  of  a  band- 
box. Yesterday  was  one  of  those  lovely  days  of  early  April, 
and  I  wanted  to  take  my  children  a  walk,  while  I  was  still 
able — for  the  warning  bell  is  in  my  ears.  Such  an  expedi- 
tion is  quite  an  epic  to  a  mother!  One  dreams  of  it  the 
night  before!  Armand  was  for  the  first  time  to  put  on  a  lit- 
tle black  velvet  jacket,  a  new  collar  which  I  had  worked,  a 
Scotch  cap  with  the  Stuart  colors  and  cock's  feathers;  Nail's 
was  to  be  in  white  and  pink,  with  one  of  those  delicious  little 
baby  caps;  for  she  is  a  baby  still,  though  she  will  lose 
that  pretty  title  on  the  arrival  of  the  impatient  youngster, 
whom  I  call  my  beggar,  for  he  will  have  the  portion  of  a 
younger  son.  (You  see,  Louise,  the  child  has  already  appeared 
to  me  in  a  vision,  so  I  know  it  is  a  boy.) 

Well,  caps,  collars,  jackets,  socks,  dainty  little  shoes, 
pink  garters,  the  muslin  frock  with  silk  embroidery — all  was 
laid  out  on  my  bed.  Then  the  little  brown  heads  had  to  be 
brushed,  twittering  merrily  all  the  time  like  birds  answering 
each  other's  call.  Armand's  hair  is  in  curls,  while  Nais's  is 
brought  forward  softly  on  the  forehead  as  a  border  to  the 
pink-and-white  cap.  Then  the  shoes  are  buckled ;  and  when 
the  little  bare  legs  and  well- shod  feet  have  trotted  off  to  the 
nursery,  while  two  shining  faces  (clean,  Mary  calls  them) 
and  eyes  ablaze  with  life  petition  me  to  start,  my  heart  beats 
fast.  To  look  on  the  children  whom  one's  own  hand  has 
arrayed,  the  pure  skin  brightly  veined  with  blue,  that  one 
has  bathed,  laved,  and  sponged  and  decked  with  gay  colors 
of  silk  or  velvet — why,  there  is  no  poem  comes  near  to  it! 
With  what  eager,  covetous  longing  one  calls  them  back  for 


596  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

one  more  kiss  on  those  white  necks,  which,  in  their  simple 
collars,  the  loveliest  woman  cannot  rival.  Even  the  coarsest 
lithograph  of  such  a  scene  makes  a  mother  pause,  and  I  feast 
mj  eyes  daily  on  the  living  picture! 

Once  out  of  doors,  triumphant  in  the  result  of  my  labors, 
while  I  was  admiring  the  princely  air  with  which  little  Ar- 
mand  helped  baby  to  totter  along  the  path  you  know,  I  saw 
a  carriage  coming,  and  tried  to  get  them  out  of  the  way. 
The  children  tumbled  into  a  dirty  puddle,  and  lo!  my  works 
of  art  are  ruined!  We  had  to  take  them  back  and  change 
thek  things.  I  took  the  little  one  in  my  arms,  never  think- 
ing of  my  own  dress,  which  was  ruined,  while  Mary  seized 
Armand,  and  the  cavalcade  re-entered.  With  a  crying  baby 
and  a  soaked  child,  what  mind  has  a  mother  left  for  herself? 

Dinner  time  arrives,  and  as  a  rule  I  have  done  nothing. 
Now  comes  the  problem  which  faces  me  twice  every  day — 
how  to  suffice  in  my  own  person  for  two  children,  put  on 
their  bibs,  turn  up  their  sleeves,  and  get  them  to  eat.  In  the 
midst  of  these  ever-recurring  cares,  joys,  and  catastrophes, 
the  only  person  neglected  in  the  house  is  myself.  If  the 
children  have  been  naughty,  often  I  don't  get  rid  of  my  curl- 
papers all  day.  Their  tempers  rule  my  toilet.  As  the  price 
of  the  few  minutes  in  which  I  write  you  these  half-dozen 
pages,  I  have  had  to  let  them  cut  pictures  out  of  my  novels, 
build  castles  with  books,  chessmen,  or  mother-of-pearl  count- 
ers, and  give  Nais  my  silks  and  wools  to  arrange  in  her  own 
fashion,  which,  I  assure  you,  is  so  complicated  that  she  is 
entirely  absorbed  in  it,  and  has  not  uttered  a  word. 

Yet  I  have  nothing  to  complain  of.  My  children  are  both 
strong  and  independent;  they  amuse  themselves  more  easily 
than  you  would  think.  They  find  delight  in  everything;  a 
guarded  liberty  is  worth  many  toys.  A  few  pebbles,  pink, 
yellow,  purple,  and  black,  small  shells,  the  mysteries  of  sand, 
are  a  world  of  pleasure  to  them.  Their  wealth  consists  in 
possessing  a  multitude  of  small  things.  I  watch  Armand  and 
find  him  talking  to  the  flowers,  the  flies,  the  chickens, 
and  imitating  them.  He  is  on  friendly  terms  with  insects, 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  597 

and  never  wearies  of  admiring  them.  Everything  which  is 
on  a  minute  scale  interests  them.  Armand  is  beginning  to 
ask  the  "why"  of  everything  he  sees.  He  has  come  to  ask 
what  I  am  saying  to  his  godmother,  whom  he  looks  on  as  a 
fairy.  Strange  how  children  hit  the  mark! 

Alas !  my  sweet,  I  would  not  sadden  you  with  the  tale 
of  my  joys.  Let  me  give  you  some  notion  of  your  godson's 
character.  The  other  day  we  were  followed  by  a  poor  man 
begging — beggars  soon  find  out  that  a  mother  with  her  child 
at  her  side  can't  resist  them.  Armand  has  no  idea  what 
hunger  is,  and  money  is  a  sealed  book  to  him;  but  I  had 
just  bought  him  a  trumpet  which  had  long  been  the  object 
of  his  desires.  He  held  it  out  to  the  old  man  with  a  kingly 
air,  saying:  "Here,  take  this!" 

What  joy  the  world  can  give  would  compare  with  such 
a  moment? 

"May  I  keep  it?"  said  the  poor  man  to  me.  "I,  too, 
madame,  have  had  children,"  he  added,  hardly  noticing  the 
money  I  put  into  his  hand. 

I  shudder  when  I  think  that  Armand  must  go  to  school, 
and  that  I  have  only  three  years  and  a  half  more  to  keep  him 
by  me.  The  flowers  that  blossom  in  his  sunny  childhood 
will  fall  before  the  scythe  of  a  public  school  system;  his 
gracious  ways  and  bewitching  candor  will  lose  their  spon- 
taneity. They  will  cut  the  curls  that  I  have  brushed  and 
smoothed  and  kissed  so  often !  What  will  they  do  with  the 
thinking  being  that  is  Armand? 

And  what  of  you?  You  tell  me  nothing  of  your  life. 
Are  you  still  in  love  with  Felipe?  For,  as  regards  the  Sara- 
cen, I  have  no  uneasiness.  Good-by;  Nais  has  just  had  a 
tumble,  and  if  I  run  on  like  this,  my  letter  will  become 
a  volume. 


598  BALZAC'S    WORKS 


MME.  DE  MACUMER  TO  THE  COMTESSE  DE  I/ESTORADE 

1829. 

Y  SWEET,  tender  Ren^e,  you  will  have  learned 
from  the  papers  the  terrible  calamity  which  has 
overwhelmed  me.  I  have  not  been  able  to  write 
you  even  a  word.  For  twenty  days  I  never  left  his  bedside; 
I  received  his  last  breath  and  closed  his  eyes;  I  kept  holy 
watch  over  him  with  the  priests  and  repeated  the  prayers  for 
the  dead.  The  cruel  pangs  I  suffered  were  accepted  by  me 
as  a  rightful  punishment;  and  yet,  when  I  saw  on  his  calm 
lips  the  smile  which  was  his  last  farewell  to  me,  how  was  it 
possible  to  believe  that  I  had  caused  his  death! 

Be  it  so  or  not,  he  is  gone,  and  I  am  left.  To  you,  who 
have  known  us  both  so  well,  what  more  need  I  say?  These 
words  contain  all.  Oh !  I  would  give  my  share  of  Heaven 
to  hear  the  flattering  tale  that  my  prayers  have  power  to  call 
him  back  to  life!  To  see  him  again,  to  have  him  once  more 
mine,  were  it  only  for  a  second,  would  mean  that  I  could 
draw  breath  again  without  mortal  agony.  Will  you  not 
come  soon  and  soothe  me  with  such  promises  ?  Is  not  your 
love  strong  enough  to  deceive  me. 

But  stay!  it  was  you  who  told  me  beforehand  that  he 
would  suffer  through  me.  Was  it  so  indeed  ?  Yes,  it  is 
true,  I  had  no  right  to  his  love.  Like  a  thief,  I  took  what 
was  not  mine,  and  my  frenzied  grasp  has  crushed  the  life  out 
of  my  bliss.  The  madness  is  over  now,  but  I  feel  that  I  am 
alone.  Merciful  God !  what  torture  of  the  damned  can  exceed 
the  misery  in  that  word  ? 

When  they  took  him  away  from  me,  I  lay  down  on  the 
same  bed  and  hoped  to  die.  There  was  but  a  door  between 
us,  and  it  seemed  to  me  I  had  strength  to  force  it!  But, 
alas!  I  was  too  young  for  death;  and  after  forty  days, 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  599 

during  which,  with  cruel  care  and  all  the  sorry  inventions 
of  medical  science,  they  slowly  nursed  me  back  to  life,  I 
find  myself  in  the  country,  seated  by  my  window,  sur- 
rounded with  lovely  flowers,  which  he  made  to  bloom  for 
me,  gazing  on  the  same  splendid  view  over  which  his  eyes 
have  so  often  wandered,  and  which  he  was  so  proud  to 
have  discovered,  since  it  gave  me  pleasure.  Ah!  dear 
Renee,  no  words  can  tell  how  new  surroundings  hurt 
when  the  heart  is  dead.  I  shiver  at  the  sight  of  the 
moist  earth  in  my  garden,  for  the  earth  is  a  vast  tomb, 
and  it  is  almost  as  though  I  walked  on  him!  When  1 
first  went  out,  I  trembled  with  fear  and  could  not  move. 
It  was  so  sad  to  see  his  flowers,  and  he  not  there! 

My  father  and  mother  are  in  Spain.  You  know  what  my 
brothers  are,  and  you  yourself  are  detained  in  the  country. 
But  you  need  not  be  uneasy  about  me;  two  angels  of  mercy 
flew  to  my  side.  The  Due  and  Duchesse  de  Soria  hastened 
to  their  brother  in  his  illness,  and  have  been  everything  that 
heart  could  wish.  The  last  few  nights  before  the  end  found 
the  three  of  us  gathered,  in  calm  and  wordless  grief,  round 
the  bed  where  this  great  man  was  breathing  his  last,  a  man 
among  a  thousand,  rare  in  any  age,  head  and  shoulders  above 
the  rest  of  us  in  everything.  The  patient  resignation  of  my 
Felipe  was  angelic.  The  sight  of  his  brother  and  Marie  gave 
him  a  moment's  pleasure  and  easing  of  his  pain. 

"Darling,"  he  said  to  me  with  the  simple  frankness  which 
never  deserted  him,  "I  had  almost  gone  from  life  without 
leaving  to  Fernand  the  Barony  of  Macumer;  I  must  make 
a  new  will.  My  brother  will  forgive  me;  he  knows  what 
it  is  to  love!" 

I  owe  my  life  to  the  care  of  my  brother-in-law  and  his 
wife;  they  want  to  carry  me  off  to  Spain! 

Ah !  Renee,  to  no  one  but  you  can  I  speak  freely  of  my 
grief.  A  sense  of  my  own  faults  weighs  me  to  the  ground, 
and  there  is  a  bitter  solace  in  pouring  them  out  to  you,  poor, 
unheeded  Cassandra.  The  exactions,  the  preposterous  jeal- 
ousy, the  nagging  unrest  of  my  passion  wore  him  to  death. 


600  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

My  love  was  the  more  fraught  with  danger  for  him  because 
we  had  both  the  same  exquisitely  sensitive  nature,  we  spoke 
the  same  language,  nothing  was  lost  on  him,  and  often  the 
mocking  shaft,  so  carelessly  discharged,  went  straight  to  his 
heart.  You  can  have  no  idea  of  the  point  to  which  he  car- 
ried submissiveness.  I  had  only  to  tell  him  to  go  and  leave 
me  alone,  and  the  caprice,  however  wounding  to  him,  would 
be  ^obeyed  without  a  murmur.  His  last  breath  was  spent  in 
blessing  me  and  in  repeating  that  a  single  morning  alone  with 
me  was  more  precious  to  him  than  a  lifetime  spent  with  an- 
other woman,  were  she  even  the  Marie  of  his  youth.  My 
tears  fall  as  I  write  the  words. 

This  is  the  manner  of  my  life  now.  I  rise  at  midday 
and  go  to  bed  at  seven ;  I  linger  absurdly  long  over  meals ; 
I  saunter  about  slowly,  standing  motionless,  an  hour  at  a 
time,  before  a  single  plant;  I  gaze  into  the  leafy  trees;  I 
take  a  sober  and  serious  interest  in  mere  nothings;  I  long 
for  shade,  silence,  and  night;  in  a  word,  I  fight  through 
each  hour  as  it  comes,  and  take  a  gloomy  pleasure  in  add- 
ing it  to  the  heap  of  the  vanquished.  My  peaceful  park 
gives  me  all  the  company  I  care  for;  everything  there  is 
full  of  glorious  images  of  my  vanished  joy,  invisible  for 
others  but  eloquent  to  me. 

"I  cannot  away  with  you  Spaniards!"  I  exclaimed  one 
morning,  as  my  sister-in-law  flung  herself  on  my  neck. 
"You  have  some  nobility  that  we  lack." 

Ah!  Ren^e,  if  I  still  live,  it  is  doubtless  because  Heaven 
tempers  the  sense  of  affliction  to  the  strength  of  those  who 
have  to  bear  it.  Only  a  woman  can  know  what  it  is  to 
lose  a  love  which  sprang  from  the  heart  and  was  genuine 
throughout,  a  passion  which  was  not  ephemeral,  and  satis- 
fied at  once  the  spirit  and  the  flesh.  How  rare  it  is  to  find 
a  man  so  gifted  that  to  worship  him  brings  no  sense  of  deg- 
radation! If  such  supreme  fortune  befall  us  once,  we  can- 
not hope  for  it  a  second  time.  Men  of  true  greatness, 
whose  strength  and  worth  are  veiled  by  poetic  grace,  and 
who  charm  by  some  high  spiritual  power,  men  made  to  be 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  601 

adored,  beware  of  love!  Love  will  ruin  you,  and  ruin  the 
woman  of  your  heart.  This  is  the  burden  of  my  cry  as  I 
pace  my  woodland  walks. 

And  he  has  left  me  no  child!  That  love  so  rich  in 
smiles,  which  rained  perpetual  flowers  and  joy,  has  left  no 
fruit.  I  am  a  thing  accursed.  Can  it  be  that,  even  as  the 
two  extremes  of  polar  ice  and  torrid  sand  are  alike  intol- 
erant of  life,  so  the  very  purity  and  vehemence  of  a  single- 
hearted  passion  render  it  barren  as  hate  ?  Is  it  only  a  mar- 
riage of  reason,  such  as  yours,  which  is  blessed  with  a 
family?  Can  Heaven  be  jealous  of  our  passions?  These 
are  wild  words. 

You  are,  I  believe,  the  one  person  whose  company  I 
could  endure.  Come  to  me,  then;  none  but  Rene*e  should 
be  with  Louise  in  her  sombre  garb.  What  a  day  when  I 
first  put  on  my  widow's  bonnet!  When  I  saw  myself  all 
arrayed  in  black,  I  fell  back  on  a  seat  and  wept  till  night 
came;  and  I  weep  again  as  I  recall  that  moment  of  anguish. 

Good-by.  Writing  tires  me;  thoughts  crowd  fast,  but 
I  have  no  heart  to  put  them  into  words.  Bring  your  chil- 
dren; you  can  nurse  baby  here  without  making  me  jealous; 
all  that  is  gone,  he  is  not  here,  and  I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
see  my  godson.  Felipe  used  to  wish  for  a  child  like  little 
Armand.  Come,  then,  oome  and  help  me  to  bear  my  woe. 


XL  VII 

RENEE   TO   LOUISE 

1\  /fY  DAELING—When  you  hold  this  letter  in  your 
/I//     hands,  I  shall  be  already  near,  for  I  am  starting  a 
few  minutes  after  it.     We  shall  be  alone  together. 
Louis  is  obliged  to  remain  in  Provence  because  of  the  ap- 
proaching elections.     He  wants  to  be  elected  again,  and  the 
Liberals  are  already  plotting  against  his  return. 

I  don't  come  to  comfort  you;  I  only  bring  you  my  heart 
Vol.  A.  BALZAC — 26 


602  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

to  beat  in  sympathy  with  yours,  and  help  you  to  bear  with 
life.  I  come  to  bid  you  weep,  for  only  with  tears  can  you 
purchase  the  joy  of  meeting  him  again.  Remember,  he  is 
travelling  toward  Heaven,  and  every  step  forward  which 
you  take  brings  you  nearer  to  him.  Every  duty  done 
breaks  a  link  in  the  chain  that  keeps  you  apart. 

Louise,  in  my  arms  you  will  once  more  raise  your  head 
and  go  on  your  way  to  him,  pure,  noble,  washed  of  all  those 
errors,  which  had  no  root  in  your  heart,  and  bearing  with 
you  the  harvest  of  good  deeds  which,  in  his  name,  you  will 
accomplish  here. 

I  scribble  these  hasty  lines  in  all  the  bustle  of  prepara- 
tion, and  interrupted  by  the  babies  and  by  Armand,  who 
keeps  crying,  "Godmother,  godmother!  I  want  to  see 
her,"  till  I  am  almost  jealous.  He  might  be  your  child! 


SECOND  PART 

XLVIII 

THE  BARONNE  DE  MACUMER  TO  THE  COMTESSE  DE 
L'ESTORADE 

October  15,  1833. 

rES,  RENfiE,  it  is  quite  true;    you  have  been  cor- 
rectly  informed.      I   have   sold   my   house,    I   have 
sold  Chantepleurs,  and  the  farms  in  Seine-et-Marne, 
but  no  more,  please!     I  am  neither  mad  nor  ruined,  I  as- 
sure you. 

Let  us  go  into  the  matter.  When  everything  was 
wound  up,  there  remained  to  me  of  my  poor  Macumer's 
fortune  about  twelve  hundred  thousand  francs.  I  will  ac- 
count, as  to  a  practical  sister,  for  every  penny  of  this. 

I  put  a  million  into  the  Three  per  Cents  when  they  were 
at  fifty,  and  so  I  have  got  an  income  for  myself  of  sixty  thou- 
sand francs,  instead  of  the  thirty  thousand  which  the  prop- 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  603 

erty  yielded.  Then,  only  think  what  my  life  was.  Six 
months  of  the  year  in  the  country,  renewing  leases,  listen- 
ing to  the  grumbles  of  the  farmers,  who  pay  when  it  pleases 
them,  and  getting  as  bored  as  a  sportsman  in  wet  weather. 
There  was  produce  to  sell,  and  I  always  sold  it  at  a  loss. 
Then,  in  Paris  my  house  represented  a  rental  of  ten  thou- 
sand francs ;  I  had  to  invest  my  money  at  the  notaries ;  I 
was  kept  waiting  for  the  interest,  and  could  only  get  the 
money  back  by  prosecuting;  in  addition  1  had  to  study 
the  law  of  mortgage.  In  short,  there  was  business  in  Ni- 
vernais,  in  Seine-et-Marne,  in  Paris — and  what  a  burden, 
what  a  nuisance,  what  a  vexing  and  losing  game  for  a 
widow  of  twenty-seven! 

Whereas  now  my  fortune  is  secured  on  the  Budget.  In 
place  of  paying  taxes  to  the  State,  I  receive  from  it,  every 
half-year,  in  my  own  person,  and  free  from  cost,  thirty 
thousand  francs  in  thirty  notes,  handed  over  the  counter 
to  me  by  a  dapper  little  clerk  at  the  Treasury,  who  smiles 
when  he  sees  me  coming! 

Supposing  the  nation  became  bankrupt?  Well,  to  begin 
with: 

"  "Tis  not  mine  to  seek  trouble  so  far  from  my  door." 

At  the  worst,  too,  the  nation  would  not  dock  me  of  more 
than  half  my  income,  so  I  should  still  be  as  well  off  as 
before  my  investment,  and  in  the  meantime  I  shall  be 
drawing  a  double  income  until  the  catastrophe  arrives.  A 
nation  doesn't  become  bankrupt  more  than  once  in  a  cen- 
tury, so  I  shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  amass  a  little  capital 
out  of  my  savings. 

And  finally,  is  not  the  Comte  de  1'Estorade  a  peer  of 
this  July  semi -republic  ?  Is  he  not  one  of  those  pillars 
ol  royalty  offered  by  the  "people"  to  the  King  of  the 
French?  How  can  I  have  qualms  with  a  friend  at  Court, 
a  great  financier,  head  of  the  Audit  Department?  I  defy 
you  to  arraign  my  sanity!  I  am  almost  as  good  at  sums 
as  your  citizen  king. 


604  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Do  you  know  what  inspires  a  woman  with  all  this  arith- 
metic ?  Love,  my  dear ! 

Alas!  the  moment  has  come  for  unfolding  to  you  the 
mysteries  of  my  conduct,  the  motives  of  which  have  baf- 
fled even  your  keen  sight,  your  prying  affection,  and  your 
subtlety.  I  am  to  be  married  in  a  country  village  near 
Paris.  I  love  and  am  loved.  I  love  as  much  as  a 
woman  can  who  knows  love  well.  I  am  loved  as  much 
as  a  woman  ought  to  be  by  the  man  she  adores. 

Forgive  me,  Kenee,  for  keeping  this  a  secret  from  you 
and  from  every  one.  If  your  friend  evades  all  spies  and 
puts  curiosity  on  a  false  track,  you  must  admit  that  my 
feeling  for  poor  Macumer  justified  some  dissimulation.  Be- 
sides, de  1'Estorade  and  you  would  have  deafened  me  with 
remonstrances,  and  plagued  me  to  death  with  your  misgiv- 
ings, to  which  the  facts  might  have  lent  some  color.  You 
know,  if  no  one  else  does,  to  what  pitch  my  jealousy  can 
go,  and  all  this  would  only  have  been  useless  torture  to 
me.  I  was  determined  to  carry  out,  on  my  own  responsi- 
bility, what  you,  Renee,  will  call  my  insane  project,  and 
I  would  take  counsel  only  with  my  own  head  and  heart, 
for  all  the  world  like  a  schoolgirl  giving  the  slip  to  her 
watchful  parents. 

The  man  I  love  possesses  nothing  except  thirty  thousand 
francs'  worth  of  debts,  which  I  have  paid.  What  a  theme 
for  comment  here!  You  would  have  tried  to  make  Gaston 
out  an  adventurer;  your  husband  would  have  set  detectives 
on  ihe  dear  boy.  I  preferred  to  sift  him  for  myself.  He 
has  been  wooing  me  now  close  on  two  years.  I  am  twenty- 
seven,  he  is  twenty-three.  The  difference,  I  admit,  is  huge 
when  it  is  on  the  wrong  side.  Another  source  of  lamen- 
tation! 

Lastly,  he  is  a  poet,  and  has  lived  by  his  trade — that  is 
to  say,  on  next  to  nothing,  as  you  will  readily  understand. 
Being  a  poet,  he  has  spent  more  time  weaving  day-dreams, 
and  basking,  lizard-like,  in  the  sun,  than  scribing  in  his 
dingy  garret.  Now,  practical  people  have  a  way  of  tar- 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  605 

ring  with  the  same  brush  of  inconstancy  authors,  artists, 
and  in  general  all  men  who  live  by  their  brains.  Their 
nimble  and  fertile  wit  lays  them  open  to  the  charge  of  a 
like  agility  in  matters  of  the  heart. 

Spite  of  the  debts,  spite  of  the  difference  in  age,  spite  of 
the  poetry,  an  end  is  to  be  placed  in  a  few  days  to  a  heroic 
resistance  of  more  than  nine  months,  daring  which  he  has 
not  been  allowed  even  to  kiss  my  hand,  and  so  also  ends 
the  season  of  our  sweet,  pure,  love-making.  This  is  not 
the  mere  surrender  of  a  raw,  ignorant,  and  curious  girl,  as 
it  was  eight  years  ago;  the  gift  is  deliberate,  and  my  lover 
awaits  it  with  such  loyal  patience  that,  if  I  pleased,  I  could 
postpone  the  marriage  for  a  year.  There  is  no  servility  in 
this;  love's  slave  he  may  be,  but  the  heart  is  not  slavish. 
Never  have  I  seen  a  man  of  nobler  feeling,  or  one  whose 
tenderness  was  more  rich  in  fancy,  whose  love  bore  more 
the  impress  of  his  soul.  Alas!  my  sweet  one,  the  art  of 
love  is  his  by  heritage.  A  few  words  will  tell  his  story. 

My  friend  has  no  other  name  than  Marie  Graston.  He  is 
the  illegitimate  son  of  the  beautiful  Lady  Brandon,  whose 
fame  must  have  reached  you,  and  who  died  broken-hearted, 
a  victim  to  the  vengeance  of  Lady  Dudley — a  ghastly  story 
of  which  the  dear  boy  knows  nothing.  Marie  Graston  was 
placed  by  his  brother  Louis  in  a  boarding-school  at  Tours, 
where  he  remained  till  1827.  Louis,  after  settling  his  brother 
at  school,  sailed  a  few  days  later  for  foreign  parts  "to  seek 
his  fortune,"  to  use  the  words  of  an  old  woman  who  had 
played  the  part  of  Providence  to  him.  This  brother  turned 
sailor  used  to  write  him,  at  long  intervals,  letters  quite  fath- 
erly in  tone,  and  breathing  a  noble  spirit;  but  a  struggling 
life  never  allowed  him  to  return  home.  His  last  letter  told 
Marie  that  he  had  been  appointed  Captain  in  the  navy  of 
some  American  republic,  and  exhorted  him  to  hope  for  bet- 
ter days. 

Alas!  since  then  three  years  have  passed,  and  my  poor 
poet  has  never  heard  again.  So  dearly  did  he  love  hie 
brother,  that  he  would  have  started  to  look  for  him  but  for 


606  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

Daniel  d'Arthez,  the  well-known  author,  who  took  a  gen- 
erous interest  in  Marie  Graston,  and  prevented  him  carrying 
out  his  mad  impulse.  Nor  was  this  all ;  often  would  he  give 
him  a  crust  and  a  corner,  as  the  poet  puts  it  in  his  graphic 
words. 

For,  in  truth,  the  poor  lad  was  in  terrible  straits;  he  was 
actually  innocent  enough  to  believe — incredible  as  it  seems — 
that  genius  was  the  shortest  road  to  fortune,  and  from  1828 
to  1833  his  one  aim  has  been  to  make  a  name  for  himself  in 
letters.  Naturally  his  life  was  a  frightful  tissue  of  toil  and 
hardships,  alternating  between  hope  and  despair.  The  good 
advice  of  d'Arthez  could  not  prevail  against  the  allurements 
of  ambition,  and  his  debts  went  on  growing  like  a  snowball. 
Still  he  was  beginning  to  come  into  notice  when  I  happened 
to  meet  him  at  Mme.  d'Espard's.  At  first  sight  he  inspired 
me,  unconsciously  to  himself,  with  the  most  vivid  sympathy. 
How  did  it  come  about  that  this  virgin  heart  had  been  left 
for  me?  The  fact  is  that  my  poet  combines  genius  and 
cleverness,  passion  and  pride,  and  women  are  always  afraid 
of  greatness  which  has  no  weak  side  to  it.  How  many  vic- 
tories were  needed  before  Josephine  could  see  the  great 
Napoleon  in  the  little  Bonaparte  whom  she  had  married? 

Poor  Graston  is  innocent  enough  to  think  he  knows  the 
measure  of  my  love!  He  simply  has  not  an  idea  of  it,  but 
to  you  I  must  make  it  clear;  for  this  letter,  Renee,  is  some- 
thing in  the  nature  of  a  last  will  and  testament.  Weigh  well 
what  I  am  going  to  say,  I  beg  of  you. 

At  this  moment  I  am  confident  of  being  loved  as  perhaps 
not  another  woman  on  this  earth,  nor  have  I  a  shadow  of 
doubt  as  to  the  perfect  happiness  of  our  wedded  life,  to  which 
I  bring  a  feeling  hitherto  unknown  to  me.  Yes,  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  I  know  the  delight  of  being  swayed  by  pas- 
sion. That  which  every  woman  seeks  in  love  will  be  mine 
in  marriage.  As  poor  Felipe  once  adored  me,  so  do  I  now 
adore  Graston.  I  have  lost  control  of  myself,  I  tremble  before 
this  boy  as  the  Arab  hero  used  to  tremble  before  me.  In  a 
word,  the  balance  of  love  is  now  on  my  side,  and  this  makes 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  607 

me  timid.  I  am  full  of  the  most  absurd  terrors.  I  am  afraid 
of  being  deserted,  afraid  of  becoming  old  and  ugly  while 
Gaston  still  retains  his  youth  and  beauty,  afraid  of  coming 
short  of  his  hopes ! 

And  yet  I  believe  I  have  it  in  me,  I  believe  I  have  suffi- 
cient devotion  and  ability,  not  only  to  keep  alive  the  flame 
of  his  love  in  our  solitary  life,  far  from  the  world,  but  even 
to  make  it  burn  stronger  and  brighter.  If  I  am  mistaken, 
if  this  splendid  idyl  of  love  in  hiding  must  come  to  an  end — 
an  end!  what  am  I  saying? — if  I  find  Gaston's  love  less 
intense  any  day  than  it  was  the  evening  before,  be  sure  of 
this,  Renee,  I  should  visit  my  failure  only  on  myself;  no 
blame  should  attach  to  him.  I  tell  you  now,  it  would  mean 
my  death.  Not  even  if  I  had  children  could  I  live  on  these 
terms,  for  I  know  myself,  Rene"e,  I  know  that  my  nature 
is  the  lover's  rather  than  the  mother's.  Therefore  before 
taking  this  vow  upon  my  soul,  I  implore  you,  my  Rende, 
if  this  disaster  befall  me,  to  take  the  place  of  mother  to  my 
children ;  let  them  be  my  legacy  to  you !  All  that  I  know 
of  you,  your  blind  attachment  to  duty,  your  rare  gifts,  your 
love  of  children,  your  affection  for  me,  would  help  to  make 
my  death — I  dare  not  say  easy — but  at  least  less  bitter. 

The  compact  I  have  thus  made  with  myself  adds  a  vague 
terror  to  the  solemnity  of  my  marriage  ceremony.  For  this 
reason  I  wish  to  have  no  one  whom  I  know  present,  and  it 
will  be  performed  in  secret.  Let  my  heart  fail  me  if  it  will, 
at  least  I  shall  not  read  anxiety  in  your  dear  eyes,  and  I  alone 
shall  know  that  this  new  marriage  contract  which  I  sign  may 
be  my  death-warrant. 

I  shall  not  refer  again  to  this  agreement  entered  into  be- 
tween my  present  self  and  the  self  I  am  to  be.  I  have  con- 
fided it  to  you  in  order  that  you  might  know  the  full  extent 
of  your  responsibilities.  In  marrying  I  retain  full  control 
of  my  property;  and  Gaston,  while  aware  that  I  have  enough 
to  secure  a  comfortable  life  for  both  of  us,  is  ignorant  of  its 
amount.  Within  twenty-four  hours  I  shall  dispose  of  it  as 
I  please ;  and  in  order  to  save  him  from  a  humiliating  posi- 


608  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

tion,  I  shall  have  stock,  bringing  in  twelve  thousand  francs 
a  year,  assigned  to  him.  He  will  find  this  in  his  desk  on  the 
eve  of  our  wedding.  If  he  declined  to  accept,  I  should  break 
off  the  whole  thing.  I  had  to  threaten  a  rupture  to  get  his 
permission  to  pay  his  debts. 

This  long  confession  has  tired  me.  I  shall  finish  it 
the  day  after  to-morrow;  I  have  to  spend  to-morrow  in 
the  country. 

October  20th. 

1  WILL  tell  you  now  the  steps  I  have  taken  to  insure 
secrecy.  My  object  has  been  to  ward  off  every  possible 
incitement  to  my  ever-wakeful  jealousy,  in  imitation  of  the 
Italian  princess,  who,  like  a  lioness,  rushing  on  her  prey, 
carried  it  off  to  some  Swiss  town  to  devour  in  peace.  And 
I  confide  my  plans  to  you  only  because  I  have  another  favor 
to  beg;  namely,  that  you  will  respect  our  solitude  and  never 
come  to  see  us  uninvited. 

Two  years  ago  I  purchased  a  small  property  overlooking 
the  ponds  of  Ville  d'Avray,  on  the  road  to  Versailles.  It 
consists  of  twenty  acres  of  meadow  land,  the  skirts  of  a 
wood,  and  a  fine  fruit  garden.  Below  the  meadows  the  land 
has  been  excavated  so  as  to  make  a  lakelet  of  about  three 
acres  in  extent,  with  a  charming  little  island  in  the  middle. 
The  small  valley  is  shut  in  by  two  graceful,  thickly-wooded 
slopes,  where  rise  delicious  springs  that  water  my  park  by 
means  of  channels  cleverly  disposed  by  my  architect.  Finally, 
they  fall  into  the  royal  ponds,  glimpses  of  which  can  be  seen 
here  and  there,  gleaming  in  the  distance.  My  little  park  h.is 
been  admirably  laid  out  by  the  architect,. who  has  surrounded 
it  by  hedges,  walls,  or  ha-has,  according  to  the  lay  of  the 
land,  so  that  no  possible  point  of  view  may  be  lost. 

A  chalet  has  been  built  for  me  half-way  up  the  hillside, 
with  a  charming  exposure,  having  the  woods  of  the  Ronce 
on  either  side,  and  in  front  a  grassy  slope  running  down  to 
the  lake.  Externally  the  chalet  is  an  exact  copy  of  those 
which  are  so  much  admired  by  travellers  on  the  road  from 
Sion  to  Brieg,  and  which  fascinated  me  when  I  was  return- 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  609 

ing  from  Italy.  The  internal  decorations  will  bear  com- 
parison with  those  of  the  most  celebrated  buildings  of  the 
kind. 

A  hundred  paces  from  this  rustic  dwelling  stands  a  charm- 
ing and  ornamental  house,  communicating  with  it  by  a  sub- 
terranean* passage.  This  contains  the  kitchen,  and  other 
servants'  rooms,  stables,  and  coach-houses.  Of  all  this 
series  of  brick  buildings  the  fagade  alone  is  seen,  graceful 
in  its  simplicity,  against  a  background  of  shrubbery.  An- 
other building  serves  to  lodge  the  gardeners  and  masks  the 
entrance  to  the  orchards  and  kitchen  gardens. 

The  entrance  gate  to  the  property  is  so  hidden  in  the  wall 
dividing  the  park  from  the  wood  as  almost  to  defy  detection. 
The  plantations,  already  well  grown,  will,  in  two  or  three 
years,  completely  hide  the  buildings,  so  that,  except  in  win- 
ter, when  the  trees  are  bare,  no  trace  of  habitation  will  appear 
to  the  outside  world,  save  only  the  smoke  visible  from  the 
neighboring  nills. 

The  surroundings  of  my  chalet  have  been  modelled  on 
what  is  called  the  King's  Garden  at  Versailles,  but  it  has 
an  outlook  on  my  lakelet  and  island.  The  hills  on  every 
side  display  their  abundant  foliage — those  splendid  trees  for 
which  your  new  civil  list  has  so  well  cared.  My  gardeners 
have  orders  to  cultivate  sweet-scented  flowers  to  any  extent, 
and  no  others,  so  that  our  home  will  be  a  fragrant  emerald. 
The  chalet,  adorned  with  a  wild  vine  which  covers  the  roof, 
is  literally  imbedded  in  climbing  plants  of  all  kinds — hops, 
clematis,  jasmine,  azalea,  copsea.  It  will  be  a  sharp  eye 
which  can  descry  our  windows! 

The  chalet,  my  dear,  is  a  good,  solid  house,  with  its  heat- 
ing system  and  all  the  conveniences  of  modern  architecture, 
which  can  raise  a  palace  in  the  compass  of  a  hundred  square 
feet.  It  contains  a  suite  of  rooms  for  Gaston  and  another  for 
me.  The  ground-floor  is  occupied  by  an  anteroom,  a  parlor, 
and  a  dining-room.  Above  our  floor  again  are  three  rooms 
destined  for  the  nurseries.  I  have  five  first-rate  horses,  a 
small  light  coupe,  and  a  two-horse  cabriolet.  We  are  only 


610  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

forty  minutes'  drive  from  Paris;  so  that,  when  the  spirit 
moves  us  to  hear  an  opera  or  see  a  new  play,  we  can  start 
after  dinner  and  return  the  same  night  to  our  bower.  The 
road  is  a  good  one,  and  passes  under  the  shade  of  our  green 
dividing  wall. 

My  servants — cook,  coachman,  groom,  and  gardeners,  in 
addition  to  my  maid — are  all  very  respectable  people,  whom 
I  have  spent  the  last  six  months  in  picking  up,  and  they  will 
be  superintended  by  my  old  Philippe.  Although  confident 
of  their  loyalty  and  good  faith,  I  have  not  neglected  to  culti- 
vate self-interest;  their  wages  are  small,  but  will  receive  an 
annual  addition  in  the  shape  of  a  New  Year's  Day  present. 
They  are  all  aware  that  the  slightest  fault,  or  a  mere  sus- 
picion of  gossiping,  might  lose  them  a  capital  place.  Lovers 
are  never  troublesome  to  their  servants;  they  are  indulgent 
by  disposition,  and  therefore  I  feel  that  I  can  reckon  on  my 
household. 

All  that  is  choice,  pretty,  or  decorative  in  my  house  in 
the  Eue  du  Bac  has  been  transported  to  the  chalet.  The 
Rembrandt  hangs  on  the  staircase,  as  though  it  were  a  mere 
daub;  the  Hobbema  faces  the  Rubens  in  his  study;  the 
Titian,  which  my  sister-in-law  Marie  sent  me  from  Madrid, 
adorns  the  boudoir.  The  beautiful  furniture  picked  up  by 
Felipe  looks  very  well  in  the  parlor,  which  the  architect  has 
decorated  most  tastefully.  Everything  at  the  chalet  is 
charmingly  simple,  with  the  simplicity  which  can't  be  got 
under  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  Our  ground-floor  rests 
on  cellars,  which  are  built  of  millstone  and  imbedded  in 
concrete;  it  is  almost  completely  buried  in  flowers  and 
shrubs,,  and  is  deliciously  cool  without  a  vestige  of  damp. 
To  complete  the  picture,  a  fleet  of  white  swans  sail  over  my 
lake! 

Oh!  Rene"e,  the  silence  which  reigns  in  this  valley  would 
bring  joy  to  the  dead!  One  is  wakened  by  the  birds  singing 
or  the  breeze  rustling  in  the  poplars.  A  little  spring,  dis- 
covered by  the  architect  in  digging  the  foundations  of  the 
wall,  trickles  down  the  hillside  over  silvery  sand  to  the  lake, 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  611 

between  two  banks  of  watercress,  hugging  the  edge  of  the 
woods.  I  know  nothing  that  money  can  buy  to  equal  it. 

May  not  (raston  come  to  loathe  this  too  perfect  bliss  ?  I 
shudder  to  think  how  complete  it  is,  for  the  ripest  fruits 
harbor  the  worms,  the  most  gorgeous  flowers  attract  the 
insects.  Is  it  not  ever  the  monarch  of  the  forest  which  is 
eaten  away  by  the  fatal  brown  grub,  greedy  as  death?  I 
have  learned  before  now  that  an  unseen  and  jealous  power 
attacks  happiness  which  has  reached  perfection.  Besides, 
this  is  the  moral  of  all  your  preaching,  and  you  have  been 
proved  a  prophet. 

When  I  went,  the  day  before  yesterday,  to  see  whether 
my  last  whim  had  been  carried  out,  tears  rose  to  my  eyes; 
and,  to  the  great  surprise  of  my  architect,  I  at  once  passed 
his  account  for  payment. 

"But,  madame, "  he  exclaimed,  "your  man  of  business 
will  refuse  to  pay  this;  it  is  a  matter  of  three  hundred  thou- 
sand francs."  My  only  reply  was  to  add  the  words,  "To  be 
paid  without  question,"  with  the  bearing  of  a  seventeenth 
century  Chaulieu. 

"But,"  I  said,  "there  is  one  condition  to  my  gratitude. 
No  human  being  must  hear  from  you  of  the  park  and  build- 
ings. Promise  me,  on  your  honor,  to  observe  this  article  in 
our  contract — not  to  breathe  to  a  soul  the  proprietor's  name." 

Now,  can  you  understand  the  meaning  of  my  sudden 
journeys,  my  mysterious  comings  and  goings?  Now,  do 
you  know  whither  those  beautiful  things,  which  the  world 
supposes  to  be  sold,  have  flown?  Do  you  perceive  the 
ultimate  motive  of  my  change  of  investment?  Love,  my 
dear,  is  a  vast  business,  and  they  who  would  succeed  in  it 
should  have  no  other.  Henceforth  I  shall  have  no  more 
trouble  from  money  matters ;  I  have  taken  all  the  thorns 
out  of  my  life,  and  done  my  housekeeping  work  once  for 
all  with  a  vengeance,  so  as  never  to  be  troubled  with  it 
again,  except  during  the  daily  ten  minutes  which  I  shall 
devote  to  my  old  major-domo,  Philippe.  I  have  made  a 
study  of  life  and  its  sharp  curves;  there  came  a  day  when 


612  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

death  also  gave  me  harsh  lessons.  Now  I  want  to  turn  all 
this  to  account.  My  one  occupation  will  be  to  please  him 
and  love  him,  to  brighten  with  variety  what  to  common 
mortals  is  monotonously  dull. 

Gaston  is  still  in  complete  ignorance.  At  my  request 
he  has,  like  myself,  taken  up  his  quarters  at  Ville  d'Av- 
ray;  to-morrow  we  start  for  the  chalet.  Our  life  there 
will  cost  but  little;  but  if  I  told  you  the  sum  I  am  setting 
aside  for  my  toilet,  you  would  exclaim  at  my  madness,  and 
with  reason.  I  intend  to  take  as  much  trouble  to  make 
myself  beautiful  for  him  every  day  as  other  women  do  for 
society.  My  dress  in  the  country,  year  in,  year  out,  will 
cost  twenty-four  thousand  francs,  and  the  larger  portion  of 
this  will  not  go  in  day  costumes.  As  for  him,  he  can  wear 
a  blouse  if  he  pleases !  Don't  suppose  that  I  am  going  to 
turn  our  life  into  an  amorous  duel  and  wear  myself  out  in 
devices  for  feeding  passion;  all  that  1  want  is  to  have  a 
conscience  free  from  reproach.  Thirteen  years  still  lie 
before  me  as  a  pretty  woman,  and  I  am  determined  to  be 
loved  on  the  last  day  of  the  thirteenth  even  more  fondly 
than  on  the  morrow  of  our  mysterious  nuptials.  This  time 
no  cutting  words  shall  mar  my  lowly,  grateful  content.  I 
will  take  the  part  of  servant,  since  that  of  mistress  throve 
so  ill  with  me  before. 

Ah!  Renee,  if  Gaston  has  sounded,  as  1  have,  the  heights 
and  depths  of  love,  my  happiness  is  assured !  Nature  at  the 
chalet  wears  her  fairest  face.  The  woods  are  charming;  each 
step  opens  up  to  you  some  fresh  vista  of  cool  greenery,  which 
delights  the  soul  by  the  sweet  thoughts  it  wakens.  They 
breathe  of  love.  If  only  this  be  not  the  gorgeous  theatre 
dressed  by  my  hand  for  my  own  martyrdom ! 

In  two  days  from  now  I  shall  be  Mme.  Graston.  My 
God!  is  it  fitting  a  Christian  so  to  love  mortal  man? 

"Well,  at  least  you  have  the  law  with  you,"  was  the 
comment  of  my  man  of  business,  who  is  to  be  one  of  my 
witnesses,  and  who  exclaimed,  on  discovering  why  my  prop- 
erty was  to  be  realized,  "I  am  losing  a  client!" 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  613 

And  you,  my  sweetheart  (whom  1  dare  no  longer  call  my 
loved  one),  may  you  not  cry,  "I  am  losing  a  sister"? 

My  sweet,  address  when  you  write  in  future  to  Mme. 
Gaston,  Poste  Eestante,  Versailles.  We  shall  send  there 
every  day  for  letters.  I  don't  want  to  be  known  to  the 
country  people,  and  we  shall  get  all  our  provisions  from 
Paris.  In  this  way  I  hope  we  may  guard  the  secret  of 
our  lives.  Nobody  has  been  seen  in  the  place  during 
the  year  spent  in  preparing  our  retreat;  and  the  purchase 
was  made  in  the  troubled  period  which  followed  the  rev- 
olution of  July.  The  only  person  who  has  shown  himself 
here  is  the  architect;  he  alone  is  known,  and  he  will  not 
return. 

Farewell.  As  I  write  this  word,  I  know  not  whether 
my  heart  is  fuller  of  grief  or  joy.  That  proves,  does  it 
not?  that  the  pain  of  losing  you  equals  my  love  for  Gaston. 


XLIX 

MARIE    GASTON    TO   DANIEL    D'ABTHEZ 

October,  1833. 

-n  /r  Y  DEAR  DANIEL — I  need  two  witnesses  for  my 
Jwl  marriage.  I  beg  of  you  to  come  to-morrow  even- 
ing for  this  purpose,  bringing  with  you  our  worthy 
and  honored  friend,  Joseph  Bridau.  She  who  is  to  be  my 
wife,  with  an  instinctive  divination  of  my  dearest  wishes, 
has  declared  her  intention  of  living  far  from  the  world  in 
complete  retirement.  You,  who  have  done  so  much  to 
lighten  my  penury,  have  been  left  in  ignorance  of  my  love; 
but  you  will  understand  that  absolute  secrecy  was  essential. 
This  will  explain  to  you  why  it  is  that,  for  the  last  year, 
we  have  seen  so  little  of  each  other.  On  the  morrow  of  my 
wedding  we  shall  be  parted  for  a  long  time;  but,  Daniel, 
you  are  of  stuff  to  understand  me.  Friendship  can  subsist 
in  the  absence  of  the  friend.  There  may  be  times  when  1 
shall  want  you  badly,  but  I  shall  not  see  you,  at  least  not 
in  my  own  house.  Here  again  she  has  forestalled  our  wishes. 


614  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

She  has  sacrificed  to  me  her  intimacy  with  a  friend  of  her 
childhood,  who  has  been  a  sister  to  her.  For  her  sake,  then, 
I  also  must  relinquish  my  comrade! 

From  this  fact  alone  you  will  divine  that  ours  is  no  mere 
passing  fancy,  but  love,  absolute,  perfect,  godlike;  love 
based  upon  the  fullest  knowledge  that  can  bind  two  hearts 
in  sympathy.  To  me  it  is  a  perpetual  spring  of  purest 
delight. 

Yet  nature  allows  of  no  happiness  without  alloy;  and 
deep  down,  in  the  innermost  recess  of  my  heart,  I  am  con- 
scious of  a  lurking  thought,  not  shared  with  her,  the  pang 
of  which  is  for  me  alone.  You  have  too  often  come  to  the 
help  oi  my  inveterate  poverty  to  be  ignorant  how  desperate 
matters  were  with  me.  Where  should  I  have  found  courage 
to  keep  up  the  struggle  of  life,  after  seeing  my  hopes  so  often 
blighted,  but  for  your  cheering  words,  your  tactful  aid,  and 
the  knowledge  of  what  you  had  come  through?  Briefly, 
then,  my  friend,  she  freed  me  from  that  crushing  load  of 
debt,  which  was  no  secret  to  you.  She  is  wealthy,  I  am 
penniless.  Many  a  time  have  I  exclaimed,  in  one  of  my  fits 
of  idleness,  "Oh,  for  some  great  heiress  to  cast  her  eye  on 
me!"  And  now,  in  presence  of  this  reality,  the  boy's  care- 
less jest,  the  unscrupulous  cynicism  of  the  outcast,  have  alike 
vanished,  leaving  in  their  place  only  a  bitter  sense  of  hu- 
miliation, which  not  the  most  considerate  tenderness  on  her 
part,  nor  my  own  assurance  of  her  noble  nature,  can  remove. 
Nay,  what  better  proof  of  my  love  could  there  exist,  for  her 
or  for  myself,  than  this  shame,  from  which  I  have  not  re- 
coiled, even  when  powerless  to  overcome  it?  The  fact 
remains  that  there  is  a  point  where,  far  from  protecting,  I 
am  the  protected. 

This  is  my  pain  which  I  confide  to  you. 

Except  in  this  one  particular,  dear  Daniel,  my  fondest 
dreams  are  more  than  realized.  Fairest  and  noblest  among 
women,  such  a  bride  might  indeed  raise  a  man  to  giddy 
heights  of  bliss.  Her  gentle  ways  are  seasoned  with  wit, 
her  love  comes  with  an  ever-fresh  grace  and  charm;  her 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES 

mind  is  well  informed  and  quick  to  understand;  in  person, 
she  is  fair  and  lovely,  with  a  rounded  slimness,  as  though 
Kaf ael  and  Eubens  had  conspired  to  create  a  woman !  I  do 
not  know  whether  I  could  have  worshipped  with  such  fervor 
at  the  shrine  of  a  dark  beauty ;  a  brunette  always  strikes  me 
as  an  unfinished  boy.  She  is  a  widow,  childless,  and  twenty- 
seven  years  of  age.  Though  brimful  of  life  and  energy,  she 
has  her  moods  also  of  dreamy  melancholy.  These  rare  gifts 
go  with  a  proud  aristocratic  bearing;  she  has  a  fine  presence. 

She  belongs  to  one  of  those  old  families  who  make  a  fetich 
of  rank,  yet  loves  me  enough  to  ignore  the  misfortune  of  my 
birth.  Our  secret  passion  is  now  of  long  standing;  we  have 
made  trial,  each  of  the  other,  and  find  that  in  the  matter  of 
jealousy  we  are  twin  spirits;  our  thoughts  are  the  reverbera- 
tion of  the  same  thunderclap.  We  both  love  for  the  first 
time,  and  this  bewitching  springtime  has  filled  its  days  for 
us  with  all  the  images  of  delight  that  fancy  can  paint  in 
laughing,  sweet,  or  musing  mood.  Our  path  has  been  strewn 
with  the  flowers  of  tender  imaginings.  Each  hour  brought 
its  own  wealth,  and  when  we  parted,  it  was  to  put  our 
thoughts  in  verse.  Not  for  a  moment  did  I  harbor  the  idea 
of  sullying  the  brightness  of  such  a  time  by  giving  the  rein 
to  sensual  passion,  however  it  might  chafe  within.  She  was 
a  widow  and  free;  intuitively,  she  realized  all  the  homage 
implied  in  this  constant  self-restraint,  which  often  moved 
her  to  tears.  Can  you  not  read  in  this,  my  friend,  a  soul  of 
noble  temper  ?  In  mutual  fear  we  shunned  even  the  first 
kiss  of  love. 

"We  have  each  a  wrong  to  reproach  ourselves  with,"  she 
said  one  day. 

"Where  is  yours?"  I  asked. 

"My  marriage,"  was  her  reply. 

Daniel,  you  are  a  giant  among  us,  and  you  love  one  of  the 
most  gifted  women  of  the  aristocracy,  which  has  produced 
my  Armande;  what  need  to  tell  you  more  ?  Such  an  answer 
lays  bare  to  you  a  woman's  heart  and  all  the  happiness  which 
is  in  store  for  your  friend,  MARIE  G-ASTON. 


616  BALZAC'S    WORKS 


MME.  DE  L'ESTORADE  TO  MME.  DE  MACUMER 

ZOUISE,  can  it  be  that,  with  all  your  knowledge  of  the 
deep-seated  mischief  wrought  by  the  indulgence  of 
passion,  even  within  the  heart  of  marriage,  you  are 
planning  a  life  of  wedded  solitude  ?     Having  sacrificed  your 
first  husband  in  the  course  of  a  fashionable  career,  would  you 
now  fly  to  the  desert  to  consume  a  second  ?     What  stores  of 
misery  you  are  laying  up  for  yourself ! 

But  I  see  from  the  way  you  have  set  about  it  that  there 
is  no  going  back.  The  man  who  has  overcome  your  aversion 
to  a  second  marriage  must  indeed  possess  some  magic  of 
mind  and  heart;  and  you  can  only  be  left  to  your  illusions. 
But  have  you  forgotten  your  former  criticism  on  young  men  ? 
Not  one,  you  would  say,  but  has  visited  haunts  of  shame, 
and  has  besmirched  his  purity  with  the  filth  of  the  streets. 
Where  is  the  change,  pray — in  them  or  in  you  ? 

You  are  a  lucky  woman  to  be  able  to  believe  in  happi- 
ness. I  have  not  the  courage  to  blame  you  for  it,  though 
the  instinct  of  affection  urges  me  to  dissuade  you  from  this 
marriage.  Yes,  a  thousand  times,  yes,  it  is  true  that  nature 
and  society  are  at  one  in  making  war  on  absolute  happiness, 
because  such  a  condition  is  opposed  to  the  laws  of  both;  pos- 
sibly, also,  because  Heaven  is  jealous  of  its  privileges.  My 
love  for  you  forebodes  some  disaster  to  which  all  my  pene- 
tration can  give  no  definite  form.  I  know  neither  whence 
nor  from  whom  it  will  arise;  but  one  need  be  no  prophet  to 
foretell  that  the  mere  weight  of  a  boundless  happiness  will 
overpower  you.  Excess  of  joy  is  harder  to  bear  than  any 
amount  of  sorrow. 

Against  him  I  have  not  a  word  to  say.  You  love  him, 
and  in  all  probability  I  have  never  seen  him ;  but  some  idle 
day  I  hope  you  will  send  me  a  sketch,  however  slight,  of  this 
rare,  fine  animal. 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  617 

If  you  see  me  so  resigned  and  cheerful,  it  is  because  I  am 
convinced  that,  once  the  honeymoon  is  over,  you  will  both, 
with  one  accord,  fall  back  into  the  common  track.  Some 
day,  two  years  hence,  when  we  are  walking  along  this  famous 
road,  you  will  exclaim,  "Why,  there  is  the  chalet  which  was 
to  be  my  home  forever!"  And  you  will  laugh  your  dear  old 
laugh,  which  shows  all  your  pretty  teeth! 

I  have  said  nothing  yet  to  Louis-;  it  would  be  too  good  an 
opening  for  his  ridicule.  I  shall  tell  him  simply  that  you  are 
going  to  be  married,  and  that  you  wish  it  kept  secret.  Un- 
luckily, you  need  neither  mother  nor  sister  for  your  bridal 
evening.  We  are  in  October  now;  like  a  brave  woman,  you 
are  grappling  with  winter  first.  If  it  were  not  a  question  of 
marriage,  I  should  say  you  were  taking  the  bull  by  the  horns. 
In  any  case,  you  will  have  in  me  the  most  discreet  and  intelli- 
gent of  friends.  That  mysterious  region,  known  as  the  centre 
of  Africa,  has  swallowed  up  many  travellers,  and  you  seem 
to  me  to  be  launching  on  an  expedition  which,  in  the  domain 
of  sentiment,  corresponds  to  those  where  so  many  explorers 
have  perished,  whether  in  the  sands  or  at  the  hands  of  na- 
tives. Your  desert  is,  happily,  only  two  leagues  from  Paris, 
so  I  can  wish  you  quite  cheerfully  "A  safe  journey  and 
speedy  return. ' ' 

LI 

THE   COMTESSE   DE   I/ESTORADE   TO   MME.  MARIE   GASTON 

1835. 

'RA  T  HAS  come  to  you,  my  dear  ?  After  a  silence 
of  two  years,  surely  Kenee  has  a  right  to  feel 
anxious  about  Louise.  So  this  is  love!  It 
brushes  aside  and  scatters  to  the  winds  a  friendship  such 
as  ours!  You  must  admit  that,  devoted  as  I  am  to  my  chil- 
dren—more even  perhaps  than  you  to  your  Gaston— a  moth- 
er's love  has  something  expansive  about  it  which  does  not 
allow  it  to  steal  from  other  affections,  t>r  interfere  with  the 
claims  of  friendship.  I  miss  your  letters,  I  long  for  a  sight 


618  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

of  your  dear,  sweet  face.  Oh!  Louise,  my  heart  has  only 
conjecture  to  feed  upon! 

As  regards  ourselves,  I  will  try  and  tell  you  everything 
as  briefly  as  possible. 

On  reading  over  again  your  last  letter  but  one,  I  find  some 
stinging  comments  on  our  political  situation.  You  mocked 
at  us  for  keeping  the  post  in  the  Audit  Department,  which, 
as  well  as  the  title  of  Count,  Louis  owed  to  the  favor  of 
Charles  X.  But  I  should  like  to  know,  please,  how  it  would 
be  possible  out  of  an  income  of  forty  thousand  livres,  thirty 
thousand  of  which  go  with  the  entail,  to  give  a  suitable  start 
in  life  to  Athenais  and  my  poor  little  beggar  Rene*  ?  •  Was 
it  not  a  dut}'  to  live  on  our  salary  and  prudently  allow  the 
income  of  the  estate  to  accumulate  ?  In  this  way  we  shall, 
in  twenty  years,  have  put  together  about  six  hundred  thou- 
sand francs,  which  will  provide  portions  for  my  daughter 
and  for  Bene',  whom  I  destine  for  the  navy.  The  poor  little 
chap  will  have  an  income  of  ten  thousand  livres,  and  per- 
haps we  may  contrive  to  leave  him  in  cash  enough  to  bring 
his  portion  up  to  the  amount  of  his  sister's. 

When  he  is  Captain,  my  beggar  will  be  able  to  make  a 
wealthy  marriage  and  take  a  position  in  society  as  good  as 
his  elder  brother's. 

These  considerations  of  prudence  determined  the  accept- 
ance in  our  family  of  the  new  order  of  things.  The  new 
dynasty,  as  was  natural,  raised  Louis  to  the  Peerage  and 
made  him  a  grand  officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  The  oath 
once  taken,  1'Estorade  could  not  be  half-hearted  in  his  ser- 
vices, and  he  has  since  then  made  himself  very  useful  in  the 
Chamber.  The  position  he  has  now  attained  is  one  in  which 
he  can  rest  upon  his  oars  till  the  end  of  his  days.  He  has 
a  good  deal  of  adroitness  in  business  matters;  and  though  he 
can  hardly  be  called  an  orator,  speaks  pleasantly  and  fluently, 
which  is  all  that  is  necessary  in  politics.  His  shrewdness 
and  the  extent  of  his  information  in  all  matters  of  govern- 
ment and  administration  are  fully  appreciated,  and  all  parties 
consider  him  indispensable.  I  may  tell  you  that  he  was 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  619 

recently  offered  an  embassy,  but  I  would  not  let  him  accept 
it.  I  am  tied  to  Paris  by  the  education  of  Armand  and 
Athe'nais— who  are  now  respectively  thirteen  and  nearly 
eleven— and  I  don't  intend  leaving  till  little  Kene  has  com- 
pleted his,  which  is  just  beginning. 

We  could  not  have  remained  faithful  to  the  elder  branch 
of  the  dynasty  and  returned  to  our  country  life  without 
allowing  the  education  and  prospects  of  the  three  children 
to  suffer.  A  mother,  my  sweet,  is  hardly  called  on  to  be  a 
Decius,  especially  at  a  time  when  the  type  is  rare.  In  fifteen 
years  from  now,  1'Estorade  will  be  able  to  retire  to  La  Cram- 
pade  on  a  good  pension,  having  found  a  place  as  referendary 
for  Armand  in  the  Audit  Department. 

As  for  Rene,  the  navy  will  doubtless  make  a  diplomatist 
of  him.  The  little  rogue,  at  seven  years  old,  has  all  the 
cunning  of  an  old  Cardinal. 

Oh !  Louise,  I  am  indeed  a  happy  mother.  My  children 
are  an  endless  source  of  joy  to  me. 

"Senza  brama  sicura  ricchezza!" 

Armand  is  a  day  scholar  at  Henri  IY.  's  school.  I  made 
up  my  mind  he  should  have  a  public -school  training,  yet 
could  not  reconcile  myself  to  the  thought  of  parting  with 
him;  so  I  compromised,  as  the  Due  d'Orleans  did  before  he 
became — or  in  order  that  he  might  become — Louis  Philippe. 
Every  morning  Lucas,  the  old  servant  whom  you  will  remem- 
ber, takes  Armand  to  school  in  time  for  the  first  lesson,  and 
brings  him  home  again  at  half-past  four.  In  the  house  we 
have  a  private  tutor,  an  admirable  scholar,  who  helps  Ar- 
mand with  his  work  in  the  evenings,  and  calls  him  in  the 
morning  at  the  school  hour.  Lucas  takes  him  some  lunch 
during  the  play  hour  at  midday.  In  this  way  I  am  with  my 
boy  at  dinner  and  until  he  goes  to  bed  at  night,  and  I  see  him 
off  in  the  morning. 

Armand  is  the  same  charming  little  fellow,  full  of  feel- 
ing and  unselfish  impulse,  whom  you  loved;  and  his  tutor 
is  quite  pleased  with  him.  I  still  have  Nais  and  the  baby 


620  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

— two  restless  little  mortals — but  I  am  quite  as  much  a 
child  as  they  are.  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  lose  the 
darlings'  sweet  caresses.  I  could  not  live  without  the  feel- 
ing that  at  any  moment  I  can  fly  to  ArmancPs  bedside  and 
watch  his  slumbers  or  snatch  a  kiss. 

Yet  home  education  is  not  without  its  drawbacks,  to 
which  I  am  fully  alive.  Society,  like  nature,  is  a  jealous 
power,  and  will-  not  have  her  rights  encroached  on,  or  her 
system  set  at  naught.  Thus,  children  who  are  brought  up 
at  home  are  exposed  too  early  to  the  fire  of  the  world; 
they  see  its  passions  and  become  at  home  in  its  subter- 
fuges. The  finer  distinctions,  which  regulate  the  conduct 
of  matured  men  and  women,  elude  their  perceptions,  and 
they  take  feeling  and  passion  for  their  guide  instead  of 
subordinating  these  to  the  code  of  society;  while  the  gay 
trappings  and  tinsel  which  attract  so  much  of  the  world's 
favor  blind  them  to  the  importance  of  the  more  sober  vir- 
tues. A  child  of  fifteen  with  the  assurance  of  a  man  of 
the  world  is  a  thing  against  all  nature ;  at  twenty-five  he 
will  be  prematurely  old,  and  his  precocious  knowledge 
only  unfits  him  for  the  genuine  study  on  which  all  solid 
ability  must  rest.  Life  in  society  is  one  long  comedy,  and 
those  who  take  part  in  it,  like  other  actors,  reflect  back 
impressions  which  never  penetrate  below  the  surface.  A 
mother,  therefore,  who  wishes  not  to  part  from  her  chil- 
dren, must  resolutely  determine  that  they  shall  not  enter 
the  gay  world;  she  must  have  courage  to  resist  their  incli- 
nations, as  well  as  her  own,  and  keep  them  in  the  back- 
ground. Cornelia  had  to  keep  her  jewels  under  lock  and 
key.  Shall  I  do  less  for  the  children  who  are  all  the  world 
to  me? 

Now  that  I  am  thirty,  the  heat  of  the  day  is  over,  the 
hardest  bit  of  the  road  lies  behind  me.  In  a  few  years  I 
shall  be  an  old  woman,  and  the  sense  of  duty  done  is  an 
immense  encouragement.  It  would  almost  seem  as  though 
my  trio  can  read  my  thoughts  and  shape  themselves  ac- 
cordingly. A  mysterious  bond  of  sympathy  unites  me  to 


LETTERS    OF   TWO    BRIDES  621 

these  children  who  have  never  left  my  side.  If  they  knew 
the  blank  in  my  life  which  they_have  to  fill,  they  could  not 
be  more  lavish  of  the  solace  they  bring. 

Armand,  who  was  dull  and  dreamy  during  his  first  three 
years  at  school,  and  caused  me  some  uneasiness,  has  made 
a  sudden  start.  Doubtless  he  realized,  in  a  way  most  chil- 
dren never  do,  the  aim  of  all  this  preparatory  work,  which 
is  to  sharpen  the  intelligence,  to  get  them  into  habits  of  ap- 
plication, and  accustom  them  to  that  fundamental  principle 
of  all  society — obedience.  My  dear,  a  few  days  ago  I  had 
the  proud  joy  of  seeing  Armand  crowned  at  the  great  inter- 
scholastic  competition  in  the  crowded  Sorbonne,  when  your 
godson  received  the  first  prize  for  translation.  At  the  school 
distribution  he  got  two  first  prizes — one  for  verse,  and  one 
for  an  essay.  I  went  quite  white  when  his  name  was  called 
out,  and  longed  to  shout  aloud,  "I  am  his  mother!"  Little 
Nais  squeezed  my  hand  till  it  hurt,  if  at  such  a  moment  it 
were  possible  to  feel  pain.  Ah!  Louise,  a  day  like  this 
might  outweigh  many  a  dream  of  love! 

His  brother's  triumphs  have  spurred  on  little  Kene', 
who  wants  to  go  to  school  too.  Sometimes  the  three  chil- 
dren make  such  a  racket,  shouting  and  rushing  about  the 
house,  that  I  wonder  how  my  head  stands  it.  I  am  always 
with  them;  no  one  else,  not  even  Mary,  is  allowed  to  take 
care  of  my  children.  But  the  calling  of  a  mother,  if  tax- 
ing, has  so  many  compensating  joys!  To  see  a  child  leave 
its  play  and  run  to  hug  one,  out  of  the  fulness  of  its  heart, 
what  could  be  sweeter? 

Then  it  is  only  in  being  constantly  with  them  that  one 
can  study  their  characters.  It  is  the  duty  of  a  mother,  and 
one  which  she  can  depute  to  no  hired  teacher,  to  decipher 
the  tastes,  temper,  and  natural  aptitudes  of  her  children 
from  their  infancy.  All  home-bred  children  are  distin- 
guished by  ease  of  manner  and  tact,  two  acquired  quali- 
ties which  may  go  far  to  supply  the  lack  of  natural  ability, 
whereas  no  natural  ability  can  atone  for  the  loss  of  this  early 
training.  I  have  already  learned  to  discriminate  this  differ- 


622  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

ence  of  tone  in  the  men  whom  I  meet  in  society,  and  to  trace 
the  hand  of  a  woman  in  the  formation  of  a  young  man's  man- 
ners. How  could  any  woman  defraud  her  children  of  such  a 
possession?  You  see  what  rewards  attend  the  performance 
of  my  tasks! 

Armand,  I  feel  certain,  will  make  an  admirable  judge, 
the  most  upright  of  public  servants,  the  most  devoted  of 
deputies.  And  where  would  you  find  a  sailor  bolder,  more 
adventurous,  more  astute  than  my  Rene  will  be  a  few  years 
hence?  The  little  rascal  has  already  an  iron  will,  whatever 
he  wants  he  manages  to  get;  he  will  try  a  thousand  circui- 
tous ways  to  reach  his  end,  and  if  not  successful  then,  will 
devise  a  thousand  and  first.  Where  dear  Armand  quietly 
resigns  himself  and  tries  to  get  at  the  reason  of  things, 
Rene  will  storm,  and  strive,  and  puzzle,  chattering  all  the 
time,  till  at  last  he  finds  some  chink  in  the  obstacle;  if 
there  is  room  for  the  blade  of  a  knife  to  pass,  his  little 
carriage  will  ride  through  in  triumph. 

And  Nais?  Nais  is  so  completely  a  second  self  that  I 
can  hardly  realize  her  as  distinct  from  my  own  flesh  and 
blood.  What  a  darling  she  is,  and  how  I  love  to  make  a 
little  lady  of  her,  to  dress  her  curly  hair,  tender  thoughts 
mingling  the  while  with  every  touch!  I  must  have  her 
happy;  I  shall  only  give  her  to  the  man  who  loves  her 
and  whom  she  loves.  But,  Heavens!  when  I  let  her  put 
on  her  little  ornaments,  or  £ass  a  cherry-colored  ribbon 
through  her  hair,  or  fasten  the  shoes  on  her  tiny  feet,  a 
sickening  thought  comes  over  me.  How  can  one  order  the 
destiny  of  a  girl?  Who  can  say  that  she  will  not  love  a 
scoundrel  or  some  man  who  is  indifferent  to  her?  Tears 
often  spring  to  my  eyes  as  I  watch  her.  This  lovely  crea- 
ture, this  flower,  this  rosebud  which  has  blossomed  in  one's 
heart,  to  be  handed  over  to  a  man  who  will  tear  it  from  the 
stem  and  leave  it  bare!  Louise,  it  is  you — you,  who  in  two 
years  have  not  written  three  words  to  tell  me  of  your  wel- 
fare— it  is  you  who  have  recalled  to  my  mind  the  terrible 
possibilities  of  marriage,  so  full  of  anguish  for  a  mother 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES 

wrapped  up,  as  I  am,  in  her  child.  Farewell  now,  for  in 
truth  you  don't  deserve  my  friendship,  and  I  hardly  know 
how  to  write.  Oh !  answer  me,  dear  Louise. 


LII 

MME.    GASTON   TO   MME.    DE   I/ESTORADE 

THE  CHALET. 

#,  AFTER  A  SILENCE  of  two  years,  you  are 
pricked  by  curiosity,  and  want  to  know  why  I  have 
not  written.  My  dear  Kene"e,  there  are  no  words,  no 
images,  no  language  to  express  my  happiness.  That  we 
have  strength  to  bear  it  sums  up  all  I  could  say.  It  costs 
us  no  effort,  for  we  are  in  perfect  sympathy.  The  whole 
two  years  have  known  no  note  of  discord  in  the  harmony, 
no  jarring  word  in  the  interchange  of  feeling,  no  shade  of 
difference  in  our  lightest  wish.  Not  one  in  this  long  suc- 
cession of  days  has  failed  to  bear  its  own  peculiar  fruit; 
not  a  moment  has  passed  without  being  enriched  by  the 
play  of  fancy.  So  far  are  we  from  dreading  the  canker  of 
monotony  in  our  life,  that  our  only  fear  is  lest  it  should 
not  be  long  enough  to  contain  all  the  poetic  creations  of  a 
love  as  rich  and  varied  in  its  development  as  Nature  her- 
self. Of  disappointment  not  a  trace!  We  find  more  pleas- 
ure in  being  together  than  on  the  first  day,  and  each  hour 
as  it  goes  by  discloses  fresh  reason  for  our  love.  Every  day 
as  we  take  our  evening  stroll  after  dinner,  we  tell  each  other 
that  we  really  must  go  and  see  what  is  doing  in  Paris,  just  as 
one  might  talk  of  going  to  Switzerland. 

"Only  think,"  Gaston  will  exclaim,  "such  and  such  a 
boulevard  is  being  made,  the  Madeleine  is  finished.  We 
ought  to  see  it.  Let  us  go  to-morrow." 

And  to-morrow  comes,  and  we  are  in  no  hurry  to  get  up, 
and  we  breakfast  in  our  bedroom.  Then  midday  is  on -us, 
and  it  is  too  hot;  a  siesta  seems  appropriate.  Then  Gaston 
wishes  to  look  at  me,  and  he  gazes  on  my  face  as  though  it 


624  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

were  a  picture,  losing  himself  in  this  contemplation,  which, 
as  you  may  suppose,  is  not  one-sided.  Tears  rise  to  the 
eyes  of  both  as  we  think  of  our  love  and  tremble.  I  am 
still  the  mistress,  pretending,  that  is,  to  give  less  than  I 
receive,  and  I  revel  in  this  deception.  To  a  woman  what 
can  be  sweeter  than  to  see  passion  ever  held  in  check  by 
tenderness,  and  the  man  who  is  her  master  stayed,  like  a 
timid  suitor,  by  a  word  from  her,  within  the  limits  that 
she  chooses? 

You  asked  me  to  describe  him;  but,  Ren^e,  it  is  not 
possible  to  make  a  portrait  of  the  man  we  love.  How 
could  the  heart  be  kept  out  of  the  work?  Besides,  to  be 
frank  between  ourselves,  we  may  admit  that  one  of  the 
dire  effects  of  civilization  on  our  manners  is  to  make  of 
man  in  society  a  being  so  utterly  different  from  the  natural 
man  of  strong  feeling,  that  sometimes  not  a  single  point  of 
likeness  can  be  found  between  these  two  aspects  of  the  same 
person.  The  man  who  falls  into  the  most  graceful  operatic 
poses,  as  he  pours  sweet  nothings  into  your  ear  by  the  fire 
at  night,  may  be  entirely  destitute  of  those  more  intimate 
charms  which  a  woman  values.  On  the  other  hand,  an 
ugly,  boorish,  badly-dressed  figure  may  mark  a  man  en- 
dowed with  the  very  genius  of  love,  and  who  has  a  perfect 
mastery  over  situations  which  might  baffle  even  us  with  our 
superficial  graces.  A  man  whose  conventional  aspect  ac- 
cords with  his  real  nature,  who,  in  the  intimacy  of  wedded 
love,  possesses  that  inborn  grace  which  can  be  neither 
given  nor  acquired,  but  which  Greek  art  has  embodied  in 
statuary,  that  careless  innocence  of  the  ancient  poets  which, 
even  in  frank  undress,  seems  to  clothe  the  soul  as  with  a  veil 
of  modesty — this  is  our  ideal,  born  of  our  own  conceptions, 
and  linked  with  the  universal  harmony  which  seems  to  be 
the  reality  underlying  all  created  things.  To  find  this  ideal 
in  life  is  the  problem  which  haunts  the  imagination  of  every 
woman — in  Gaston  I  have  found  it. 

Ah!  dear,  I  did  not  know  what  love  could  be,  united  to 
youth,  talent,  and  beauty.  Gaston  has  no  affectations,  he 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  625 

moves  with  an  instinctive  and  unstudied  grace.  When  we 
walk  alone  together  in  the  woods,  his  arm  round  my  waist, 
mine  resting  on  his  shoulder,  body  fitted  to  body,  and  head 
touching  head,  our  step  is  so  even,  uniform,  and  gentle,  that 
those  who  see  us  pass  by  night  take  the  vision  for  a  single 
figure  gliding  over  the  gravelled  walks,  like  one  of  Homer's 
immortals.  A  like  harmony  exists  in  our  desires,  our 
thoughts,  our  words.  More  than  once  on  some  evening 
when  a  passing  shower  has  left  the  leaves  glistening  and 
the  moist  grass  bright  with  a  more  vivid  green,  it  has 
chanced  that  we  ended  our  walk  without  uttering  a  word, 
as  we  listened  to  the  patter  of  falling  drops  and  feasted  our 
eyes  on  the  scarlet  sunset,  flaring  on  the  hill-tops  or  dyeing 
with  a  warmer  tone  the  gray  of  the  tree  trunks. 

Beyond  a  doubt  our  thoughts  then  rose  to  Heaven  in 
silent  prayer,  pleading,  as  it  were,  for  our  happiness.  At 
times  a  cry  would  escape  us  at  the  moment  when  some 
sudden  bend  on  the  path  opened  up  fresh  beauties.  What 
words  can  tell  how  honey-sweet,  how  full  of  meaning,  is  a 
kiss  half  timidly  exchanged  within  the  sanctuary  of  nature 
— it  is  as  though  God  had  created  us  to  worship  in  this 
fashion. 

And  we  return  home,  each  more  deeply  in  love  than 
ever. 

A  love  so  passionate  between  old  married  people  would 
be  an  outrage  on  society  in  Paris;  only  in  .the  heart  of  the 
woods,  like  lovers,  can  we  give  scope  to  it. 

To  come  to  particulars,  Gaston  is  of  middle  height— the 
height  proper  to  all  men  of  purpose.  Neither  stout  nor 
thin,  his  figure  is  admirably  made,  with  ample  fulness  in 
the  proportions,  while  every  motion  is  agile;  he  leaps  a 
ditch  with  the  easy  grace  of  a  wild  animal.  Whatever  his 
attitude,  he  seems  to  have  an  instinctive  sense  of  balance, 
and  this  is  very  rare  in  men  who  are  given  to  thought 
Though  a  dark  man,  he  has  an  extraordinarily  fair  com- 
plexion; his  jet-black  hair  contrasts  finely  with  the  lus- 
treless tints  of  the  neck  and  forehead.  He  has  the  tragic 

Vol.  A.  BALZAO-27 


626  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

head  of  Louia  XIII.  His  mustache  and  tuft  have  been 
allowed  to  grow,  but  I  made  him  shave  the  whiskers  and 
beard,  which  were  getting  too  common.  An  honorable 
poverty  has  been  his  safeguard,  and  handed  him  over  to 
me,  unsoiled  by  the  loose  life  which  ruins  so  many  young 
men.  His  teeth  are  magnificent,  and  he  has  a  constitution 
of  iron.  His  keen  blue  eyes,  for  me  full  of  tenderness, 
will  flash  like  lightning  at  any  rousing  thought. 

Like  all  men  of  strong  character  and  powerful  mind,  he 
has  an  admirable  temper;  its  evenness  would  surprise  you, 
as  it  did  me.  I  have  listened  to  the  tale  of  many  a  woman's 
home  troubles ;  I  have  heard  of  the  moods  and  depression  of 
men  dissatisfied  with  themselves,  who  either  won't  get  old 
or  age  ungracefully,  men  who  carry  about  through  life  the 
rankling  memory  of  some  youthful  excess,  whose  veins  run 
poison  and  whose  eyes  are  never  frankly  happy,  men  who 
cloak  suspicion  under  bad  temper,  and  make  their  women 
pay  for  an  hour's  peace  by  a  morning  of  annoyance,  who 
take  vengeance  on  us  for  a  beauty  which  is  hateful  to  them 
because  they  have  ceased  themselves  to  be  attractive — all 
these  are  horrors  unknown  to  youth.  They  are  the  penalty 
of  unequal  unions.  Oh!  my  dear,  whatever  you  do,  don't 
marry  Athe'nais  to  an  old  man! 

But  his  smile — how  I  feast  on  it!  A  smile  which  is 
always  there,  yet  always  fresh  through  the  play  of  subtle 
fancy,  a  speaking  smile  which  makes  of  the  lips  a  storehouse 
for  thoughts  of  love  and  unspoken  gratitude,  a  smile  which 
links  present  joys  to  past.  For  nothing  is  allowed  to  drop 
out  of  our  common  life.  The  smallest  works  of  nature  have 
become  part  and  parcel  of  our  joy.  In  these  delightful  woods 
everything  is  alive  and  eloquent  of  ourselves.  An  old  moss- 
growri  oak,  near  the  woodman's  house  on  the  roadside,  re- 
minds us  how  we  sat  there,  wearied,  under  its  shade,  while 
Gaston  taught  me  about  the  mosses  at  our  feet  and  told  me 
their  story,  till,  gradually  ascending  from  science  to  science, 
we  touched  the  very  confines  of  creation. 

There  is  something  so  kindred  in  our  minds  that  they 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  627 

seem  to  me  like  two  editions  of  the  same  book.  You  see 
what  a  literary  tendency  I  have  developed!  We  both  have 
the  habit,  or  the  gift,  of  looking  at  every  subject  broadly, 
of  taking  in  all  its  points  of  view,  and  the  proof  we  are  con- 
stantly giving  ourselves  of  the  singleness  of  our  inward 
vision  is  an  ever-new  pleasure.  We  have  actually  come  to 
look  on  this  community  of  mind  as  a  pledge  of  love;  and  if 
it  ever  failed  us,  it  would  mean  as  much  to  us  as  would  a 
breach  of  fidelity  in  an  ordinary  home. 

My  life,  full  as  it  is  of  pleasures,  would  seem  to  you, 
nevertheless,  extremely  laborious.  To  begin  with,  my  dear, 
you  must  know  that  Louise-Armande-Marie  de  Chaulieu 
does  her  own  room.  I  could  not  bear  that  a  hired  menial, 
some  woman  or  girl  from  the  outside,  should  become  initi- 
ated— literary  touch  again! — into  the  secrets  of  my  bedroom. 
The  veriest  trifles  connected  with  the  worship  of  my  heart 
partake  of  its  sacred  character.  This  is  not  jealousy;  it  is 
self-respect.  Thus  my  room  is  done  out  with  all  the  care  a 
young  girl  in  love  bestows  on  her  person,  and  with  the  pre- 
cision of  an  old  maid.  My  dressing-room  is  no  chaos  of 
litter;  on  the  contrary,  it  makes  a  charming  boudoir.  My 
keen  eye  has  foreseen  all  contingencies.  At  whatever  hour 
the  lord  and  master  enters,  he  will  find  nothing  to  distress, 
surprise,  or  shock  him;  he  is  greeted  by  flowers,  scents,  and 
everything  that  can  please  the  eye. 

I  get  up  in  the  early  dawn,  while  he  is  still  sleeping,  and, 
without  disturbing  him,  pass  into  the  dressing-room,  where, 
profiting  by  my  mother's  experience,  I  remove  the  traces  of 
sleep  by  bathing  in  cold  water.  For  during  sleep  the  skin, 
being  less  active,  does  not  perform  its  functions  adequately; 
it  becomes  warm  and  covered  with  a  sort  of  mist  or  atmos- 
phere of  sticky  matter,  visible  to  the  eye.  From  a  sponge- 
bath  a  woman  issues  forth  ten  years  younger,  and  this,  per- 
haps, is  the  interpretation  of  the  myth  of  Venus  rising  from 
the  sea.  So  the  cold  water  restores  to  me  the  saucy  charm 
of  dawn,  and,  having  combed  and  scented  my  hair  and  made 
a  most  fastidious  toilet,  I  glide  back,  snakelike,  in  order  that 


628  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

my  master  may  find  me,  dainty  as  a  spring  morning,  at  his 
wakening.  He  is  charmed  with  his  freshness,  as  of  a  newly 
opened  flower,  without  having  the  least  idea  how  it  is  pro- 
duced. 

The  regular  toilet  of  the  day  is  a  matter  for  my  maid,  and 
this  takes  place  later  in  a  larger  room,  set  aside  for  the  pur- 
pose. As  you  may  suppose,  there  is  also  a  toilet  for  going 
to  bed.  Three  times  a  day,  you  see,  or  it  may  be  four,  do  I 
array  myself  for  the  delight  of  my  husband;  which,  again, 
dear  one,  is  suggestive  of  certain  ancient  myths. 

But  our  work  is  not  all  play.  We  take  a  great  deal  of 
interest  in  our  flowers,  in  the  beauties  of  the  hothouse,  and 
in  our  trees.  We  give  ourselves  in  all  seriousness  to  horti- 
culture, and  embosom  the  chalet  in  flowers,  of  which  we  are 
passionately  fond.  Our  lawns  are  always  green,  our  shrub- 
beries as  well  tended  as  those  of  a  millionnaire.  And  noth- 
ing, I  assure  you,  can  match  the  beauty  of  our  walled  garden. 
We  are  regular  gluttons  over  our  fruit,  and  watch  with  tender 
interest  our  Montreuil  peaches,  our  hotbeds,  our  laden  trel- 
lises, and  pyramidal  pear-trees. 

But  lest  these  rural  pursuits  should  fail  to  satisfy  my 
beloved's  mind,  I  have  advised  him  to  finish,  in  the  quiet 
of  this  retreat,  some  plays  which  were  begun  in  his  starva- 
tion days,  and  which  are  really  very  fine.  This  is  the  only 
kind  of  literary  work  which  can  be  done  in  odd  moments,  for 
it  requires  long  intervals  of  reflection,  and  does  not  demand 
the  elaborate  pruning  essential  to  a  finished  style.  One  can't 
make  a  task- work  of  dialogue;  there  must  be  biting  touches, 
summings-up,  and  flashes  of  wit,  which  are  the  blossoms  of 
the  mind,  and  come  rather  by  inspiration  than  reflection. 
This  sort  of  intellectual  sport  is  very  much  in  my  line.  I 
assist  Gaston  in  his  work,  and  in  this  way  manage  to  ac- 
company him  even  in  the  boldest  flights  of  his  imagination. 
Do  you  see  now  how  it  is  that  my  winter  evenings  never 
drag  ? 

Our  servants  have  such  an  easy  time  that  never  once  since 
we  were  married  have  we  had  to  reprimand  any  of  them. 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  629 

When  questioned  about  us,  they  have  had  wit  enough  to 
draw  on  their  imaginations,  and  have  given  us  out  as  the 
companion  and  secretary  of  a  lady  and  gentleman  supposed 
to  be  travelling.  They  never  go  out  without  asking  permis- 
sion, which  they  know  will  not  be  refused;  they  are  con- 
tented too,  and  see  plainly  that  it  will  be  their  own  fault  if 
there  is  a  change  for  the  worse.  The  gardeners  are  allowed 
to  sell  the  surplus  of  our  fruit  and  vegetables.  The  dairy- 
maid does  the  same  with  the  milk,  the  cream,  and  the  fresh 
butter,  on  condition  that  the  best  of  the  produce  is  reserved 
for  us.  They  are  well  pleased  with  their  profits,  and  we  are 
delighted  with  an  abundance  which  no  money  and  no  inge- 
nuity can  procure  in  that  terrible  Paris,  where  it  costs  a 
hundred  francs  to  produce  a  single  fine  peach. 

All  this  is  not  without  its  meaning,  my  dear.  I  wish  to 
fill  the  place  of  society  to  my  husband ;  now  society  is  amus- 
ing, and  therefore  his  solitude  must  not  be  allowed  to  pall 
on  him.  I  believed  myself  jealous  in  the  old  days,  when 
I  merely  allowed  myself  to  be  loved;  now  I  know  real 
jealousy,  the  jealousy  of  the  lover.  A  single  indifferent 
glance  unnerves  me.  From  time  to  time  I  say  to  myself, 
"Suppose  he  ceased  to  love  me!"  And  a  shudder  goes 
through  me.  I  tremble  before  him,  as  the  Christian  before 
his  God. 

Alas!  Een^e,  I  am  still  without  a  child.  The  time  will 
surely  come — it  must  come — when  our  hermitage  will  need  a 
father's  and  a  mother's  care  to  brighten  it,  when  we  shall 
both  pine  to  see  the  little  frocks  and  pelisses,  the  brown  or 
golden  heads,  leaping,  running  through  our  shrubberies  and 
flowery  paths.  Oh  !  it  is  a  cruel  jest  of  Nature's,  a  flowering 
tree  that  bears  no  fruit.  The  thought  of  your  lovely  chil- 
dren goes  through  me  like  a  knife.  My  life  has  grown  nar- 
rower, while  yours  has  expanded  and  shed  its  rays  afar.  The 
passion  of  love  is  essentially  selfish,  while  motherhood  wid- 
ens the  circle  of  our  feelings.  How  well  I  felt  this  difference 
when  I  read  your  kind,  tender  letter!  To  see  you  thus  liv- 
ing in  three  hearts  roused  my  envy.  Yes,  you  are  happy; 


630  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

you  have  had  wisdom  to  obey  the  laws  of  social  life,  while  I 
stand  outside,  an  alien. 

Children,  dear  and  loving  children,  can  alone  console  a 
woman  for  the  loss  of  her  beauty.  I  shall  soon  be  thirty, 
and  at  that  age  the  dirge  within  begins.  What  though  I  am 
still  beautiful,  the  limits  of  my  woman's  reign  are  none  the 
less  in  sight.  When  they  are  reached,  what  then?  I  shall 
be  forty  before  he  is;  I  shall  be  old  while  he  is  still  young. 
When  this  thought  goes  to  my  heart,  I  lie  at  his  feet  for  an 
hour  at  a  time,  making  him  swear  to  tell  me  instantly  if  ever 
he  feels  his  love  diminishing. 

But  he  is  a  child.  He  swears,  as  though  the  mere  sug- 
gestion were  an  absurdity,  and  he  is  so  beautiful  that — Rene*e, 
you  understand — I  believe  him. 

Good-by,  sweet  one.  Shall  we  ever  again  let  years  pass 
without  writing?  Happiness  is  a  monotonous  theme,  and 
that  is,  perhaps,  the  reason  why,  to  souls  who  love,  Dante 
appears  even  greater  in  the  "Paradiso"  than  in  the  "In- 
ferno." I  am  not  Dante;  I  am  only  your  friend,  and  I  don't 
want  to  bore  you.  You  can  write,  for  in  your  children  you 
have  an  ever-growing,  ever-varying  source  of  happiness, 
while  mine  .  No  more  of  this.  A  thousand  loves. 


LIII 

MME.  DE  L'ESTORADE  TO  MME.  GASTON 

li  ^TY  DEAR  LOUISE— I  have  read  and  reread  your 

/\/i      letter,  and  the  more  deeply  I  enter  into  its  spirit, 

the  clearer  does  it  become  to  me  that  it  is  the 

letter,  not  of  a  woman,  but  of  a  child.     You  are  the  same 

old  Louise,  and  you  forget,  what  I  used  to  repeat  over  and 

over  again  to  you,  that  the  passion  of  love  belongs  rightly  to 

a  state  of  nature,  and  has  only  been  purloined  by  civilization. 

So  fleeting  is  its  character  that  the  resources  of  society  are 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  631 

powerless  to  modify  its  primitive  condition,  and  it  becomes 
the  effort  of  all  noble  minds  to  make  a  man  of  the  infant 
Cupid.  But,  as  you  yourself  admit,  such  love  ceases  to  be 
natural. 

Society,  my  dear,  abhors  sterility;  by  substituting  a  last- 
ing sentiment  for  the  mere  passing  frenzy  of  nature,  it  has 
succeeded  in  creating  that  greatest  of  all  human  inventions 
— the  family,  which  is  the  enduring  basis  of  all  organized 
society.  To  the  accomplishment  of  this  end  it  has  sacrificed 
the  individual,  man  as  well  as  woman;  for  we  must  not  shut 
our  eyes  to  the  fact  that  a  married  man  devotes  his  energy, 
his  power,  and  all  his  possessions  to  his  wife.  Is  it  not  she 
who  reaps  the  benefit  of  all  his  care  ?  For  whom,  if  not  for 
her,  are  the  luxury  and  wealth,  the  position  and  distinction, 
the  comfort  and  the  gayety  of  the  home  ? 

Oh  I  my  sweet,  once  again  you  have  taken  the  wrong  turn- 
ing in  life.  To  be  adored  is  a  young  girl's  dream,  which 
may  survive  a  few  springtimes;  it  cannot  be  that  of  the 
mature  woman,  the  wife  and  mother.  To  a  woman's  vanity 
it  is,  perhaps,  enough  to  know  that  she  can  command  adora- 
tion if  she  likes.  If  you  would  live  the  life  of  a  wife  and 
mother,  return,  I  beg  of  you,  to  Paris.  Let  me  repeat  my 
warning:  It  is  not  misfortune  which  you  have  to  dread,  as 
others  do — it  is  happiness. 

Listen  to  me,  my  child!  It  is  the  simple  things  of  life — 
bread,  air,  silence — of  which  we  do  not  tire;  they  have  no 
piquancy  which  can  create  distaste;  it  is  highly-flavored 
dishes  which  irritate  the  palate,  and  in  the  end  exhaust  it. 
Were  it  possible  that  I  should  to-day  be  loved  by  a  man  for 
whom  I  could  conceive  a  passion,  such  as  yours  for  Gaston, 
I  would  still  cling  to  the  duties  and  the  children,  who  are 
so  dear  to  me.  To  a  woman's  heart  the  feelings  of  a  mother 
are  among  the  simple,  natural,  fruitful,  and  inexhaustible 
things  of  life.  I  can  recall  the  day,  now  nearly  fourteen 
years  ago,  when  I  embarked  on  a  life  of  self -sacrifice  with  the 
despair  of  a  shipwrecked  mariner  clinging  to  the  mast  of  his 
vessel;  now,  as  I  invoke  the  memory  of  past  years,  I  feel 


632  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

that  I  would  make  the  same  choice  again.  No  other  guiJ- 
ing  principle  is  so  safe,  or  leads  to  such  rich  reward.  The 
spectacle  of  your  life,  which,  for  all  the  romance  and  poetry 
with  which  you  invest  it,  still  remains  based  on  nothing  but 
a  ruthless  selfishness,  has  helped  to  strengthen  my  convic- 
tions. This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  speak  to  you  in  this  way ; 
but  I  could  not  refrain  from  once  more  pleading  with  you 
when  I  found  that  your  happiness  had  been  proof  against 
the  most  searching  of  all  trials. 

One  more  point  I  must  urge  on  you,  suggested  by 
my  meditations  on  your  retirement.  Life,  whether  of  the 
body  or  the  heart,  consists  iii  certain  balanced  movements. 
Any  excess  introduced  into  the  working  of  this  routine  gives 
rise  either  to  pain  or  to  pleasure,  both  of  which  are  a  mere 
fever  of  the  soul,  bound  to  be  fugitive  because  nature  is  not 
so  framed  as  to  support  it  long.  But  to  make  of  life  one 
long  excess  is  surely  to  choose  sickness  for  one's  portion. 
You  are  sick  because  you  maintain  at  the  temperature  of 
passion  a  feeling  which  marriage  ought  to  convert  into  a 
steadying,  purifying  influence. 

Yes,  my  sweet,  I  see  it  clearly  now ;  the  glory  of  a  home 
consists  in  this  very  calm,  this  intimacy,  this  sharing  alike 
of  good  and  evil,  which  the  vulgar  ridicule.  How  noble  was 
the  reply  of  the  Duchesse  de  Sully,  the  wife  of  the  great 
Sully,  to  some  one  who  remarked  that  her  husband,  for  all 
his  grave  exterior,  did  not  scruple  to  keep  a  mistress.  "What 
of  that?"  she  said.  "I  represent  the  honor  of  the  house, 
and  should  decline  to  play  the  part  of  a  courtesan  there." 

But  you,  Louise,  who  are  naturally  more  passionate  than 
tender,  would  be  at  once  the  wife  and  the  mistress.  With 
the  soul  of  a  Heloise  and  the  passions  of  a  Saint  Theresa, 
you  slip  the  leash  on  all  your  impulses,  so  long  as  they  are 
sanctioned  by  the  law ;  in  a  word,  you  degrade  the  marriage 
rite.  Surely  the  tables  are  turned.  The  reproaches  you 
once  heaped  on  me  for  immorally,  as  you  said,  seizing  the 
means  of  happiness  from  the  very  outset  of  my  wedded 
life,  might  be  directed  against  yourself  for  grasping  at 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  633 

everything  which  may  serve  your  passion.  "What?  must 
nature  and  society  alike  be  in  bondage  to  your  caprice? 
You  are  the  old  Louise;  you  have  never  acquired  the 
qualities  which  ought  to  be  a  woman's;  self-willed  and 
unreasonable  as  a  girl,  you  introduce  withal  into  your 
love  the  keenest  and  most  mercenary  of  calculations! 
Are  you  sure  that,  after  all,  the  price  you  ask  for  your 
toilets  is  not  too  high?  All  these  precautions  are  to  my 
mind  very  suggestive  of  mistrust. 

Oh,  dear  Louise,  if  only  you  knew  the  sweetness  of  a 
mother's  efforts  to  discipline  herself  in  kindness  and  gen- 
tleness to  all  about  her!  My  proud,  self-sufficing  temper 
gradually  dissolved  into  a  soft  melancholy,  which  in  turn 
has  been  swallowed  up  by  those  delights  of  motherhood 
which  have  been  its  reward.  If  the  early  hours  were 
toilsome,  the  evening  will  be  tranquil  and  clear.  My 
dread  is  lest  the  day  of  your  life  should  take  the  opposite 
course. 

When  I  had  read  your  letter  to  a  close,  I  prayed  God  to 
send  you  among  us  for  a  day,  that  you  might  see  what  fami-  • 
ly  life  really  is,  and  learn  the  nature  of  those  joys,  which  are 
lasting  and  sweeter  than  tongue  can  tell,  because  they  are 
genuine,  simple,  and  natural.  But,  alas!  what  chance  have 
I  with  the  best  of  arguments  against  a  fallacy  which  makes 
you  happy?  As  I  write  these  words,  my  eyes  fill  with 
tears.  I  had  felt  so  sure  that  some  months  of  honeymoon 
would  prove  a  surfeit  and  restore  you  to  reason.  But  I 
see  that  there  is  no  limit  to  your  appetite,  and  that,  having 
killed  a  man  who  loved  you,  you  will  not  cease  till  you 
have  killed  love  itself.  Farewell,  dear  misguided  friend. 
I  am  in  despair  that  the  letter  which  I  hoped  might  recon- 
cile you  to  society  by  its  picture  of  my  happiness  should 
have  brought  forth  only  a  pean  of  selfishness.  Yes,  your 
love  is  selfish;  you  love  Gaston  far  less  for  himself  than 
for  what  he  is  to  you. 


634        '  BALZAC'S    WORKS 


JJV 

MME.    GASTOX  TO   THE   COMTESSE   DE   L'ESTORADE 

May  20th. 

~W~^\ENEE^  calamity  has  come — no,  that  is  no  word  for 
i\  it — it  has  burst  like  a  thunderbolt  over  your  poor 
Louise.  You  know  what  that  means;  calamity  for 
me  is  doubt;  certainty  would  be  death. 

The  day  before  yesterday,  when  I  had  finished  my  first 
toilet,  I  looked  everywhere  for  Gaston  to  take  a  little  turn 
with  me  before  lunch,  but  in  vain.  I  went  to  the  stable, 
and  there  I  saw  his  mare  all  in  a  lather,  while  the  groom 
was  removing  the  foam  with  a  knife  before  rubbing  her 
down. 

"Who  in  the  world  has  put  Fedelta  in  such  a  state?" 
1  asked. 

"Master,"  replied  the  lad. 

I  saw  the  mud  of  Paris  on  the  mare's  legs,  for  country 
mud  is  quite  different ;  -and  at  once  it  flashed  through  me, 
"He  has  been  to  Paris." 

This  thought  raised  a  swarm  of  others  in  my  heart,  and 
it  seemed  as  though  all  the  life  in  my  body  rushed  there. 
To  go  to  Paris  without  telling  me,  at  the  hour  when  I 
leave  him  alone,  to  hasten  there  and  back  at  such  speed  as 
to  distress  Fedelta.  Suspicion  clutched  me  in  its  iron  grip, 
till  I  could  hardly  breathe.  I  walked  aside  a  few  steps  to  a 
seat,  where  I  tried  to  recover  my  self-command. 

Here  Gaston  found  me,  apparently  pale  and  fluttered,  for 
he  immediately  exclaimed,  "What  is  wrong?"  in  a  tone  of 
such  alarm  that  I  rose  and  took  his  arm.  But  my  muscles 
refused  to  move,  and  I  was  forced  to  sit  down  again.  Then 
he  took  me  in  his  arms  and  carried  me  to  the  parlor  close  by 
where  the  frightened  servants  pressed  after  us,  till  Gaston 
motioned  them  away,  Once  left  to  ourselves,  I  refused  to 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  635 

speak,  but  was  able  to  reach  my  room,  where  I  shut  myself 
in,  to  weep  my  fill.  Gaston  remained  something  like  two 
hours  at  my  door,  listening  to  my  sobs  and  questioning 
with  angelic  patience  his  poor  darling,  who  made  no 
response. 

At  last  I  told  him  that  I  would  see  him  when  my  eyes 
were  less  red  and  my  voice  was  steady  again. 

My  formal  words  drove  him  from  the  house.  But  by 
the  time  I  had  bathed  my  eyes  in  iced  water  and  cooled 
my  face,  I  found  him  in  our  room,  the  door  into  which 
was  open,  though  I  had  heard  no  steps.  He  begged  me  to 
tell  him  what  was  wrong. 

"Nothing,"  I  said;  "I  saw  the  mud  of  Paris  on  Fe- 
delta's  trembling  legs;  it  seemed  strange  that  you  should 
go  there  without  telling  me;  but,  of  course,  you  are  free." 

"I  shall  punish  you  for  such  wicked  thoughts  by  not 
giving  any  explanation  till  to-morrow,"  he  replied. 

"Look  at  me,"  I  said. 

My  eyes  met  his;  deep  answered  to  deep.  No,  not  a 
trace  of  the  cloud  of  disloyalty  which,  rising  from  the  soul, 
must  dim  the  clearness  of  the  eye.  I  feigned  satisfaction, 
though  really  unconvinced.  It  is  not  women  only  who  can 
lie  and  dissemble! 

The  whole  of  the  day  we  spent  together.  Ever  and 
again,  as  I  looked  at  him,  I  realized  how  fast  my  heart 
strings  were  bound  to  him.  How  I  trembled  and  fluttered 
within  when,  after  a  moment's  absence,  he  reappeared.  I 
live  in  him,  not  in  myself.  My  cruel  sufferings  gave  the 
lie  to  your  unkind  letter.  Did  I  ever  feel  my  life  thus 
bound  up  in  the  noble  Spaniard,  who  adored  me,  as  1 
adore  this  heartless  boy?  I  hate  that  mare!  Fool  that  I 
was  to  keep  horses!  But  the  next  thing  would  have  been 
to  lame  Gaston  or  imprison  him  in  the  cottage.  Wild 
thoughts  like  these  filled  my  brain;  you  see  how  near  I 
was  to  madness!  If  love  be  not  the  cage,  what  power  on 
earth  can  hold  back  the  man  who  wants  to  be  free  ? 

I  asked  him  pointblank,  "Do  I  bore  you?" 


636  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

''What  needless  torture  you  give  yourself!''  was  his 
reply,  while  he  looked  at  me  with  tender,  pitying  eyes. 
"Never  have  I  loved  you  so  deeply.'' 

"If  that  is  true,  my  beloved,  let  me  sell  Fedelta, "  I 
answered. 

"Sell  her,  by  all  means!" 

The  reply  crushed  me.  Was  it  not  a  covert  taunt  at  my 
wealth  and  his  own  nothingness  in  the  house?  This  may 
never  have  occurred  to  him,  but  I  thought  it  had,  and  once 
more  I  left  him.  It  was  night,  and  I  would  go  to  bed. 

Oh!  Renee,  to  be  alone  with  a  harrowing  thought  drives 
one  to  thoughts  of  death.  These  charming  gardens,  the 
starry  night,  the  cool  air,  laden  with  incense  from  our 
wealth  of  flowers,  our  valley,  our  hills — all  seemed  to  me 
gloomy,  black,  and  desolate.  It  was  as  though  I  lay  at 
the  foot  of  a  precipice,  surrounded  by  serpents  and  poison- 
ous plants,  and  saw  no  God  in  the  sky.  Such  a  night  ages 
a  woman. 

Next  morning  I  said: 

"Take  Fedelta  and  be  off  to  Paris!  Don't  sell  her;  I 
love  her.  Does  she  not  carry  you?" 

But  he  was  not  deceived;  my  tone  betrayed  the  storm  of 
feeling  which  I  strove  to  conceal. 

"Trust  me!"  he  replied;  and  the  gesture  with  which  he 
held  out  his  hand,  the  glance  of  his  eye,  were  so  full  of 
loyalty  that  I  was  overcome. 

"What  petty  creatures  women  are!"  I  exclaimed. 

"No,  you  love  me,  that  is  all,"  he  said,  pressing  me  to 
his  heart. 

"Go  to  Paris  without  me,"  I  said,  and  this  time  I  made 
him  understand  that  my  suspicions  were  laid  aside. 

He  went;  I  thought  he  would  have  stayed.  I  won't 
attempt  to  tell  you  what  I  suffered.  I  found  a  second  self 
within,  quite  strange  to  me.  A  crisis  like  this  has,  for  the 
woman  who  loves,  a  tragic  solemnity  that  baffles  words; 
the  whole  of  life  rises  before  you  then,  and  you  search  in. 
vain  for  any  horizon  to  it;  the  veriest  trifle  is  big  with 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  637 

meaning,  a  glance  contains  a  volume,  icicles  drift  on  ut- 
tered words,  and  the  death  sentence  is  read  in  a  movement 
of  the  lips. 

I  thought  he  would  have  paid  me  back  in  kind;  had  I 
not  been  magnanimous?  I  climbed  to  the  top  of  the 
chalet,  and  my  eyes  followed  him  on  the  road.  Ah!  my 
dear  Rene'e,  he  vanished  from  my  sight  with  an  appalling 
swiftness! 

"How  keen  he  is  to  go!"  was  the  thought  that  sprang 
of  itself. 

Once  more  alone,  I  fell  back  into  the  hell  of  possibili- 
ties, the  maelstrom  of  mistrust.  There  were  moments 
when  I  would  have  welcomed  any  certainty,  even  the 
worst,  as  a  relief  from  the  torture  of  suspense.  Suspense 
is  a  duel  carried  on  in  the  heart,  and  we  give  no  quarter  to 
ourselves. 

I  paced  up  and  down  the  walks.  I  returned  to  the 
house,  only  to  tear  out  again,  like  a  mad  woman.  Gaston, 
who  left  at  seven  o'clock,  did  not  return  till  eleven.  Now, 
as  it  only  takes  half  an  hour  to  reach  Paris  through  the  park 
of  St.  Cloud  and  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  it  is  plain  that  he 
must  have  spent  three  hours  in  town.  He  came  back  radi- 
ant, with  a  whip  in  his  hand  for  me,  an  India-rubber  whip 
with  a  gold  handle. 

For  a  fortnight  I  had  been  without  a  whip,  my  old  one 
being  worn  and  broken. 

"Was  it  for  this  you  tortured  me?"  I  said,  as  I  admired 
the  workmanship  of  this  beautiful  ornament,  which  contains 
a  little  scent- box  at  one  end. 

Then  it  flashed  on  me  that  the  present  was  a  fresh  arti- 
fice. Nevertheless  I  threw  myself  at  once  on  his  neck,  not 
without  reproaching  him  gently  for  having  caused  me  so 
much  pain  for  the  sake  of  a  trifle.  He  was  greatly 
pleased  with  his  ingenuity;  his  eyes  and  his  whole  bear- 
ing plainly  showed  the  restrained  triumph  of  the  successful 
plotter;  for  there  is  a  radiance  of  the  soul  which  is  reflected 
in  every  feature  and  turn  of  the  body.  While  still  exam- 


638  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

ining  the  beauties  of  this  work  of  art,  I  asked  him  at  a 
moment  when  we  happened  to  be  looking  each  other  in 
the  face: 

"Who  is  the  artist?" 

"A  friend  of  mine." 

"Ah!  I  see  it  has  been  mounted  by  Verdier, "  and  I  read 
the  name  of  the  shop  printed  on  the  handle. 

Gaston  is  nothing  but  a  child  yet.  He  blushed,  and  I 
made  much  of  him  as  a  reward  for  the  shame  he  felt  in  de- 
ceiving me.  I  pretended  to  notice  nothing,  and  he  may 
well  have  thought  the  incident  was  over. 

May  25ih. 

THE  next  morning  I  was  in  my  riding  habit  by  six 
o'clock,  and  by  seven  landed  at  Verdier's,  where  several 
whips  of  the  same  pattern  were  shown  me.  One  of  the 
men  serving  recognized  mine  when  I  pointed  it  out  to  him. 

"We  sold  that  yesterday  to  a  young  gentleman,"  he  said. 
And  from  the  description  I  gave  him  of  my  traitor  Gaston, 
not  a  doubt  was  left  of  his  identity.  I  will  spare  you  the 
palpitations  which  rent  rny  heart  during  that  journey  to 
Paris  and  the  little  scene  there,  which  marked  the  turning- 
point  of  my  life. 

By  half -past  seven  I  was  home  again,  and  Gaston  found 
me,  fresh  and  blooming,  in  my  morning  dress,  sauntering 
about  with  a  make-believe  nonchalance.  I  felt  confident 
that  old  Philippe,  who  had  been  taken  into  my  confidence, 
would  not  have  betrayed  my  absence. 

"Gaston,"  I  said,  as  we  walked  by  the  side  of  the  lake, 
"you  cannot  blind  me  to  the  difference  between  a  work  of 
art  inspired  by  friendship  and  something  which  has  been 
cast  in  a  mold." 

He  turned  white,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  me  ratner  than 
on  the  damaging  piece  of  evidence  I  thrust  before  them. 

"My  dear,"  I  went  on,  "this  is  not  a  whip;  it  is  a  screen 
behind  which  you  are  hiding  something  from  me. ' ' 

Thereupon  I  gave  myself  the  gratification  of  watching 
his  hopeless  entanglement  in  the  coverts  and  labyrinths  of 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  639 

deceit  and  the  desperate  efforts  he  made  to  find  some  wall 
he  might  scale  and  thus  escape.  In  vain;  he  had  perforce 
to  remain  upon  the  field,  face  to  face  with  an  adversary, 
who  at  last  laid  down  her  arms  in  a  feigned  complacence. 
But  it  was  too  late.  The  fatal  mistake,  against  which  my 
mother  had  tried  to  warn  me,  was  made.  My  jealousy, 
exposed  in  all  its  nakedness,  had  led  to  war  and  all  its 
stratagems  between  Gaston  and  myself.  Jealousy,  dear, 
has  neither  sense  nor  decency. 

I  made  up  my  mind  now  to  suffer  in  silence,  but  to  keep 
my  eyes  open,  until  my  doubts  were  resolved  one  way  or 
another.  Then  I  would  either  break  with  Gaston  or  bow- 
to  my  misfortune:  no  middle  course  is  possible  for  a 
woman  who  respects  herself. 

What  can  he  be  concealing  ?  For  a  secret  there  is,  and 
the  secret  has  to  do  with  a  woman.  Is  it  some  youthful 
escapade  for  which  he  still  blushes  ?  But  if  so,  what?  The 
word  what  is  written  in  letters  of  fire  on  all  I  see.  I  read  it 
in  the  glassy  water  of  my  lake,  in  the  shrubbery,  in  the 
clouds,  on  the  ceilings,  at  table,  in  the  flowers  of  the  carpets. 
A  voice  cries  to  me  what  ?  in  my  sleep.  Dating  from  the 
morning  of  my  discovery,  a  cruel  interest  has  sprung  into 
our  lives,  and  I  have  become  familiar  with  the  bitterest 
thought  that  can -corrode  the  heart — the  thought  of  treachery 
in  him  one  loves.  Oh!  my  dear,  there  is  heaven  and  hell 
together  in  such  a  life.  Never  had  I  felt  this  scorching 
flame,  I  to  whom  love  had  appeared  only  in  the  form  of 
devoutest  worship. 

"So  you  wished  to  know  the  gloomy  torture-chamber  of 
pain!"  I  said  to  myself.  Good,  the  spirits  of  evil  have 
heard  your  prayer;  go  on  your  road,  unhappy  wretch; 

May  30th. 

SINCE  that  fatal  day  Gaston  no  longer  works  with  the 
careless  ease  of  the  wealthy  artist,  whose  work  is  merely 
pastime;  he  sets  himself  tasks  like  a  professional  writer, 
Four  hours  a  day  he  devotes  to  finishing  his  two  plays. 


640  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

"He  wants  money!" 

A  voice  within  whispered  the  thought.  But  why  ?  He 
spends  next  to  nothing;  we  have  absolutely  no  secrets  from 
each  other;  there  is  not  a  corner  of  his  study  which  my  eyes 
and  my  fingers  may  not  explore.  His  yearly  expenditure  does 
not  amount  to  two  thousand  francs,  and  I  know  that  he  has 
thirty  thousand,  I  can  hardly  say  laid  by,  but  scattered  loose 
in  a  drawer.  You  can  guess  what  is  coming.  At  midnight, 
while  he  was  sleeping.  I  went  to  see  if  the  money  was  still 
there.  An  icy  shiver  ran  through  me.  The  drawer  was 
empty. 

That  same  week  I  discovered  that  he  went  to  Sevres  to 
fetch  his  letters,  and  these  letters  he  must  tear  up  imme- 
diately; for  though  I  am  a  very  Figaro  in  contrivances.  I 
have  never  yet  seen  a  trace  of  one.  Alas !  my  sweet,  despite 
the  fine  promises  and  vows  by  which  I  bound  myself  after 
the  scene  of  the  whip,  an  impulse,  which  I  can  only  call 
madness,  drove  me  to  follow  him  in  one  of  his  rapid  rides 
to  the  post-office.  Gaston  was  appalled  to  be  thus  discovered 
on  horseback,  paying  the  postage  of  a  letter  which  he  held 
in  his  hand.  He  looked  fixedly  at  me,  and  then  put  spurs 
to  Fedelta. 

The  pace  was  so  hard  that  I  felt  shaken  to  bits  when  I 
reached  the  lodge  gate,  though  my  mental  agony  was  such 
at  the  time  that  it  might  well  have  dulled  all  consciousness 
of  bodily  pain.  Arrived  at  the  gate.  Gaston  said  nothing; 
he  rang  the  bell  and  waited  without  a  word.  I  was  more 
dead  than  alive.  I  might  be  mistaken  or  I  might  not,  but 
in  neither  case  was  it  fitting  for  Armande-Louise- Marie  de 
Chaulieu  to  play  the  spy.  I  had  sunk  to  the  level  of  the 
gutter,  by  the  side  of  courtesans,  opera-dancers,  mere  creat- 
ures of  instinct;  even  the  vulgar  shop-girl  or  humble  seam- 
stress might  look  down  on  me. 

What  a  moment!  At  last  the  door  opened:  he  handed 
his  horse  to  the  groom,  and  I  also  dismounted,  but  into  his 
arms,  which  were  stretched  out  to  receive  me.  I  threw  my 
skirt  over  my  left  arm,  gave  him  my  right,  and  we  walked 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES 

on — still  in  silence.  The  few  steps  we  thus  took  might  be 
reckoned  to  me  for  a  hundred  years  of  purgatory.  A  swarm 
of  thoughts  beset  me  as  I  walked,  now  seeming  to  take  vis- 
ible form  in  tongues  of  fire  before  my  eyes,  now  assailing  my 
mind,  each  with  its  own  poisoned  dart.  "When  the  groom 
and  the  horses  were  far  away,  I  stopped  Gaston,  and,  look- 
ing him  in  the  face,  said,  as  I  pointed,  with  a  gesture  that 
you  should  have  seen,  to  the  fatal  letter  still  in  his  right 
hand:  "May  I  read  it?" 

He  gave  it  me.  I  opened  it  and  found  a  letter  from 
Nathan,  the  dramatic  author,  informing  Gaston  that  a  play 
of  his  had  been  accepted,  learned,  rehearsed,  and  would  be 
produced  the  following  Saturday.  He  also  inclosed  a  box 
ticket. 

Though  for  me  this  was  the  opening  of  Heaven's  gates 
to  the  martyr,  yet  the  fiend  would  not  leave  me  in  peace,  but 
kept  crying,  "Where  are  the  thirty  thousand  francs?"  It 
was  a  question  which  self-respect,  dignity,  all  my  old  self 
in  fact,  prevented  me  from  uttering.  If  my  thought  became 
speech,  I  might  as  well  throw  myself  into  the  lake  at  once, 
and  yet  I  could  hardly  keep  the  words  down.  Dear  friend, 
was  not  this  a  trial  passing  the  strength  of  woman  ? 

I  returned  the  letter,  saying:  "My  poor  Gaston,  you  are 
getting  bored  down  here.  Let  us  go  back  to  Paris,  won't 
you?" 

"To  Paris?"  he  said.  "But  why?  I  only  wanted  to 
find  out  if  I  had  any  gift,  to  taste  the  flowing  bowl  of  suc- 
cess!" 

Nothing  would  be  easier  than  for  me  to  ransack  the 
drawer  some  time  when  he  is  working  and  pretend  great  sur- 
prise at  finding  the  money  gone.  But  that  would  be  going 
half-way  to  meet  the  answer,  "Oh!  my  friend  So-and-so  was 
hard  up!"  etc.,  which  a  man  of  Gaston's  quick  wit  would 
not  have  far  to  seek. 

The  moral,  my  dear,  is  that  the  brilliant  success  of  this 
play,  which  all  Paris  is  crowding  to  see,  is  due  to  us,  though 
the  whole  credit  goes  to  Nathan.  I  am  represented  by  one 


642  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

of  the  two  stars  in  the   legend;  Et  M  *  *.     I  saw  tne  first 
night  from  the  depths  of  one  of  the  stage  boxes. 

July  1st. 

G ASTON ?s  work  and  his  visits  to  Paris  still  continue. 
He  is  preparing  new  plays,  partly  because  he  wants  a 
pretext  for  going  to  Paris,  partly  in  order  to  make  money. 
Three  plays  have  been  accepted,  and  two  more  are  com- 
missioned. 

Oh!  my  dear,  I  am  lost,  all  is  darkness  around  me.  I 
would  set  fire  to  the  house  in  a  moment  if  that  would  bring 
light.  What  does  it  all  mean  ?  Is  he  ashamed  of  taking 
money  from  me?  He  is  too  high-minded  for  so  trumpery 
a  matter  to  weigh  with  him.  Besides,  scruples  of  the  kind 
could  only  be  the  outcome  of  some  love  affair.  A  man  would 
take  anything  from  his  wife,  but  from  the  woman  he  has 
ceased  to  care  for,  or  is  thinking  of  deserting,  it  is  different. 
If  he  needs  such  large  sums,  it  must  be  to  spend  them  on  a 
woman.  For  himself,  why  should  he  hesitate  to  draw  from 
my  purse?  Our  savings  amount  to  one  hundred  thousand 
francs ! 

In  short,  my  sweetheart,  I  have  explored  a  whole  con- 
tinent of  possibilities,  and  after  carefully  weighing  all  the 
evidence,  am  •convinced  I  have  a  rival.  I  am  deserted — for 
whom  ?  At  all  costs  I  must  see  the  unknown. 

July  10th. 

LIGHT  has  come,  and  it  is  all  over  with  me.  Yes,  Eenee, 
at  the  age  of  thirty,  in  the  perfection  of  my  beauty,  with  all 
the  resources  of  a  ready  wit  and  the  seductive  charms  of 
dress  at  my  command,  I  am  betrayed — and  for  whom  ?  A 
large-boned  Englishwoman,  with  big  feet  and  thick  waist — 
a  regular  British  cow!  There  is  no  longer  room  for  doubt. 
I  will  tell  you  the  history  of  the  last  few  days. 

Worn  out  with  suspicions,  which  were  fed  by  Graston's 
guilty  silence  (for,  if  he  had  helped  a  friend,  why  keep  it  a 
secret  from  me  ?),  his  insatiable  desire  for  money,  and  his 
frequent  journeys  to  Paris;  jealous  too  of  the  work  from 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  643 

which  he  seemed  unable  to  tear  himself,  I  at  last  made  up 
my  mind  to  take  certain  steps,  of  such  a  degrading  nature 
that  I  cannot  tell  you  about  them.  Suffice  it  to  say  that 
three  days  ago  I  ascertained  that  Gaston,  when  in  Paris, 
visits  a  house  in  the  Eue  de  la  Ville  1'Eveque,  where  he 
guards  his  mistress  with  jealous  mystery,  unexampled  in 
Paris.  The  porter  was  surly,  and  I  could  get  little  out 
of  him,  but  that  little  was  enough  to  put  an  end  to  any 
lingering  hope,  and  with  hope  to  life.  On  this  point  my 
mind  was  resolved,  and  I  only  waited  to  learn  the  whole 
truth  first. 

With  this  object  I  went  to  Paris  and  took  rooms  in  a  house 
exactly  opposite  the  one  which  Gaston  visits.  Thence  I  savr 
him  with  my  own  eyes  enter  the  courtyard  on  horseback. 
Too  soon  a  ghastly  fact  forced  itself  on  me.  This  English- 
woman, who  seems  to  me  about  thirty -six,  is  known  as  Mme. 
Gaston.  This  discovery  was  my  deathblow. 

I  saw  him  next  walking  to  the  Tuileries  with  a  couple  of 
children.  Oh!  my  dear,  two  children,  the  living  images 
of  Gaston !  The  likeness  is  so  strong  that  it  bears  scandal  on 
the  face  of  it.  And  what  pretty  children!  in  their  handsome 
English  costumes!  She  is  the  mother  of  his  children.  Here 
is  the  key  to  the  whole  mystery. 

The  woman  herself  might  be  a  Greek  statue,  stepped  down 
from  some  monument.  Cold  and  white  as  marble,  she  moves 
sedately  with  a  mother's  pride.  She  is  undeniably  beautiful, 
but  heavy  as  a  man-of-war.  There  is  no  breeding  or  distinc- 
tion about  her;  nothing  of  the  English  lady.  Probably  she 
is  a  farmer's  daughter  from  some  wretched  and  remote  coun- 
try village,  or,  it  may  be,  the  eleventh  child  of  some  poor 
clergyman ! 

I  reached  home,  after  a  miserable  journey,  during  which 
all  sort  of  fiendish  thoughts  had  me  at  their  mercy,  with 
hardly  any  life  left  in  me.  Was  she  married  ?  Did  he  know 
her  before  our  marriage  ?  Had  she  been  deserted  by  some 
rich  man,  whose  mistress  she  was,  and  thus  thrown  back 
upon  Gaston's  hands?  Conjectures  without  end  flitted 


644  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

through  my  brain,  as  though  conjecture  were  needed  in  the 
presence  of  the  children. 

The  next  day  I  returned  to  Paris,  and  by  a  free  use  of  my 
purse  extracted  from  the  porter  the  information  that  Mme. 
Gaston  was  legally  married. 

His  reply  to  my  question  took  the  form,  "Yes,  Miss.'" 

July  15th. 

MY  DEAR,  my  love  for  Gaston  is  stronger  than  ever  since 
that  morning,  and  he  has  every  appearance  of  being  still 
more  deeply  in  love.  He  is  so  young!  A  score  of  times  it 
has  been  on  my  lips,  when  we  rise  in  the  morning,  to  say, 
"Then  you  love  me  better  than  the  lady  of  the  Eue  de  la 
Ville  1'Eveque  ?"  But  I  dare  not  explain  to  myself  why  the 
words  are  checked  on  my  tongue. 

"Are  you  very  fond  of  children  ?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  yes!"  was  his  reply;  "but  children  will  come!" 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"I  have  consulted  the  best  doctors,  and  they  agree  in 
advising  me  to  travel  for  a  couple  of  months." 

"Gaston,"  I  said,  "if  love  in  absence  had  been  possi- 
ble for  me,  do  you  suppose  I  should  ever  have  left  the 
convent?" 

He  laughed;  but  as  for  me,  dear,  the  word  "travel  ' 
pierced  my  heart.  Eather,  far  rather,  would  I  leap  from  the 
top  of  the  house  than  be  rolled  down  the  staircase,  step  by 
step. — Farewell,  my  sweetheart.  I  have  arranged  for  my 
death  to  be  easy  and  without  horrors,  but  certain.  I  made 
my  will  yesterday.  You  can  come  to  me  now,  the  prohibi- 
tion is  removed.  Come,  then,  and  receive  my  last  farewell. 
I  will  not  die  by  inches;  my  death,  like  my  life,  shall  bear 
the  impress  of  dignity  and  grace. 

Good-by,  dear  sister  soul,  whose  affection  has  never  wav- 
ered nor  grown  weary,  but  has  been  the  constant  tender 
moonlight  of  my  soul.  If  the  intensity  of  passion  has  not 
been  ours,  at  least  we  have  been  spared  its  venomous  bitter- 
ness. How  rightly  you  have  judged  of  life!  Farewell. 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  645 


LV 

THE   COMTESSE   DE    I/ESTORADE    TO    MME.    GASTON 

July  16th. 

71  /TY  DEAR  LOUISE— I  send  this  letter  by  an  ex- 
j[VjL  press  before  hastening  to  the  chalet  myself.  Take 
courage.  Your  last  letter  seemed  to  me  so  frantic 
that  I  thought  myself  justified,  under  the  circumstances,  in 
confiding  all  to  Louis;  it  was  a  question  of  saving  you  from 
yourself.  If  the  means  we  have  employed  have  been,  like 
yours,  repulsive,  yet  the  result  is  so  satisfactory  that  I  am 
certain  your  will  approve.  I  went  so  far  as  to  set  the  police 
to  work,  but  the  whole  thing  remains  a  secret  between  the 
prefect,  ourselves,  and  you. 

In  one  word,  Gaston  is  a  jewel!  But  here  are  the  facts. 
His  brother,  Louis  Gaston,  died  at  Calcutta,  while  in  the  ser- 
vice of  a  mercantile  company,  when  he  was  on  the  very  point 
of  returning  to  France,  a  rich,  prosperous,  married  man, 
having  received  a  very  large  fortune  with  his  wife,  who  was 
the  widow  of  an  English  merchant.  For  ten  years  he  had 
worked  hard  that  he  might  be  able  to  send  home  enough  to 
support  his  brother,  to  whom  he  was  devotedly  attached, 
and  from  whom  his  letters  generously  concealed  all  his 
trials  and  disappointments. 

Then  came  the  failure  of  the  great  Halmer  house;  the 
widow  was  ruined,  and  the  sudden  shock  affected  Louis  Gas- 
ton's  brain.  He  ,had  no  mental  energy  left  to  resist  the 
disease  which  attacked  him,  and  he  died  in  Bengal,  whither 
he  had  gone  to  try  and  realize  the  remnants  of  his  wife's 
property.  The  dear,  good  fellow  had  deposited  with  a  banker 
a  first  sum  of  three  hundred  thousand  francs,  which  was  to 
go  to  his  brother,  but  the  banker  was  involved  in  the  Halmer 
crash,  and  thus  their  last  resource  failed  them. 

Louis's  widow,   the  handsome  woman  whom  you  took 


ttdtti  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

for  your  rival,  arrived  in  Paris  with  two  children — your 
nephews — and  an  empty  purse,  her  mother's  jewels  having 
barely  sufficed  to  pay  for  bringing  them  over.  The  in- 
structions which  Louis  Gaston  had  given  the  banker  for 
sending  the  money  to  his  brother  enabled  the  widow  to 
find  your  husband's  former  home.  As  Gaston  had  disap- 
peared without  leaving  any  address,  Mine.  Louis  Gaston 
was  directed  to  d'Arthez.  the  only  person  who  could  give 
any  information  about  him. 

D'Arthez  was  the  more  ready  to  relieve  the  young 
woman's  pressing  needs,  because  Louis  Gaston,  at  the 
time  of  his  marriage  four  years  before,  had  written  to 
make  inquiries  about  his  brother  from  the  famous  author, 
whom  he  knew  to  be  one  of  his  friends.  The  Captain  had 
consulted  d'Arthez  as  to  the  best  means  of  getting  the  money 
safely  transferred  to  Marie,  and  d'Arthez  had  replied,  tell- 
ing him  that  Gaston  was  now  a  rich  man  through  his  mar- 
riage with  the  Baronne  de  Macumer.  The  personal  beauty, 
which  was  the  mother's  rich  heritage  to  her  sons,  had  saved 
them  both — one  in  India,  the  other  in  Paris — from  destitu- 
tion. A  touching  story,  is  it  not? 

D'Arthez  naturally  wrote,  after  a  time,  to  tell  your  hus- 
band of  the  condition  of  his  sister-in-law  and  her  children, 
informing  him.  at  the  same  time,  of  the  generous  intentions 
of  the  Indian  Gaston  toward  his  Paris  brother,  which  an  un- 
happy chance  alone  had  frustrated.  Gaston,  as  you  may  im- 
agine, hurried  off  to  Paris.  Here  is  the  first  ride  accounted 
for.  During  the  last  five  years  he  had  saved  fifty  thousand 
francs  out  of  the  income  which  you  forced  him  to  accept, 
and  this  sum  he  invested  in  the  public  funds  under  the 
names  of  his  two  nephews,  securing  them  each,  in  this 
way,  an  income  of  twelve  hundred  francs.  Next  he  fur- 
nished his  sister-in-law's  rooms,  and  promised  her  a  quar- 
terly allowance  of  three  thousand  francs.  Here  you  see 
the  meaning  of  his  dramatic  labors  and  the  pleasure  caused 
him  by  the  success  of  his  first  play. 

lime.  Gaston,  therefore,  is   no  rival  of  yours,  and   lias 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  647 

every  right  to  jour  name.  A  man  of  Gaston's  sensitive 
delicacy  was  bound  to  keep  the  affair  secret  from  you, 
knowing,  as  he  did,  your  generous  nature.  Nor  does  he 
look  on  what  you  gave  him  as  his  own.  D'Arthez  read 
me  the  letter  he  had  from  your  husband,  asking  him  to  be 
one  of  the  witnesses  at  his  marriage.  Gaston  in  this  de- 
clares that  his  happiness  would  have  been  perfect  but  for 
the  one  drawback  of  his  poverty  and  indebtedness  to  you. 
A  virgin  soul  is  at  the  mercy  of  such  scruples.  Either 
they  make  themselves  felt  or  they  do  not;  and  when  they 
do,  it  is  easy  to  imagine  the  conflict  of  feeling  and  embar- 
rassment to  which  they  give  rise.  Nothing  is  more  natural 
than  Gaston's  wish  to  provide  in  secret  a  suitable  mainte 
nance  for  the  woman  who  is  his  brother's  widow,  and  who 
had  herself  set  aside  one  hundred  thousand  ecus  for  him 
from  her  own  fortune.  She  is  a  handsome  woman,  warm- 
hearted, and  extremely  well-bred,  but  not  clever.  She  is 
a  mother;  and,  you  may  be  sure.  I  lost  my  heart  to  her  at 
first  sight  when  I. found  her  with  one  child  in  her  arms, 
and  the  other  dressed  like  a  little  lord.  The  children 
first!  is  written  in  every  detail  of  her  house. 

Far  from  being  angry,  therefore,  with  your  beloved 
husband,  you  should  find  in  all  this  fresh  reason  for 
loving  him.  I  have  met  him,  and  think  him  the  most 
delightful  young  fellow  in  Paris.  Yes!  dear  child,  when 
I  saw  him,  I  had  no  difficulty  in  understanding  that  a 
woman  might  lose  her  head  about  him;  his  soul  is  mir- 
rored in  his  countenance.  If  I  were  you,  I  should  settle 
the  widow  and  her  children  at  the  chalet,  in  a  pretty  little 
cottage  which  you  could  have  built  for  them,  and  adopt 
the  boys! 

Be  at  peace,  then,  dear  soul,  and  plan  this  little  sur- 
prise, in  your  turn,  for  Gaston. 


648  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

LVI 

MME.    GASTON   TO   THE   COMTESSE    DE   I/ESTORADE 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  what  can  I  say  in  an 
swer  except  the  cruel  "It  is  too  late"  of  that  fool 
Lafayette  to  his  royal  master?  Oh!  my  life,  my 
sweet  life,  what  physician  will  give  it  back  to  me?  My 
own  hand  has  dealt  the  deathblow.  Alas!  have  I  not 
been  a  mere  will-o'-the-wisp,  whose  twinkling  spark  was 
fated  to  perish  before  it  reached  a  flame  ?  My  eyes  rain 
torrents  of  tears  —  and  yet  they  must  not  fall  when  I  am 
with  him.  I  fly  him,  and  he  seeks  me.  My  despair  is  all 
within.  This  torture  Dante  forgot  to  place  in  his  "In- 
ferno." Come  to  see  me  die! 


LVII 

THE  COMTESSE  DE  I/ESTORADE  TO  THE  COMTE  DE 

L'ESTORADE 

THE  CHALET,  August  7th. 

Y  LOVE — Take  the  children  away  to  Provence 
without  me;  I  remain  with  Louise,  who  has  only 
a  few  days  yet  to  live.     I  cannot  leave  either  her 
or  her  husband,  for  whose  reason  I  fear. 

You  know  the  scrap  of  letter  which  sent  me  flying  to 
Ville  d'Avray,  picking  up  the  doctors  on  my  way.  Since 
then  I  have  not  left  my  darling  friend,  and  it  has  been 
impossible  to  write  to  you,  for  I  have  sat  up  every  night 
for  a  fortnight. 

When  I  arrived,  I  found  her  with  Gaston,  in  full  dress, 
beautiful,  laughing,  happy.  It  was  a  heroic  falsehood! 


LETTERS   OF   TWO    BRIDES  649 

They  were  like  two  lovely  children  together  in  their  re- 
stored confidence.  For  a  moment  I  was  deceived,  like 
Gaston,  by  this  effrontery ;  but  Louise  pressed  my  hand, 
whispering: 

' '  He  must  not  know ;  I  am  dying. ' ' 

An  icy  chill  fell  over  me  as  I  felt  her  burning  hand  and 
saw  the  red  spot  on  her  cheeks.  I  congratulated  myself  on 
my  prudence  in  leaving  the  doctors  in  the  wood  till  they 
should  be  sent  for. 

"Leave  us  for  a  little,"  she  said  to  Gaston.  "Two 
women  who  have  not  met  for  five  years  have  plenty  of 
secrets  to  talk  over,  and  Kene*e,  I  have  no  doubt,  has 
things  to  confide  in  me/' 

Directly  we  were  alone,  she  flung  herself  into  my  arms, 
unable  longer  to  restrain  her  tears. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  I  said.  "I  have  brought  with  me, 
in  case  of  need,  the  best  surgeon  and  the  best  physician 
from  the  hospital,  and  Bianchon  as  well;  there  are  four 
altogether. ' ' 

"Ah!"  she  cried,  "have  them  in  at  once  if  they  can  save 
me,  if  there  is  still  time.  The  passion  which  hurried  me  to 
death  now  cries  for  life!" 

"But  what  have  you  done  to  yourself?" 

"I  have  in  a  few  days  brought  myself  to  the  last  stage  of 
consumption. ' ' 

"But  how?" 

"I  got  myself  into  a  profuse  perspiration  in  the  night, 
and  then  ran  out  and  lay  down  by  the  side  of  the  lake  in 
the  dew.  Gaston  thinks  I  have  a  cold,  and  I  am  dying!" 

"Send  him  to  Paris;  I  will  fetch  the  doctors  myself," 
I  said,  as  I  rushed  out  wildly  to  the  spot  where  I  had  left 

them. 

Alas!  my  love,  after  the  consultation  was  over,  not  one 
of  the  doctors  gave  me  the  least  hope;  they  all  believe  that 
Louise  will  die  with  the  fall  of  the  leaves.     The  dear  child's 
constitution  has  wonderfully  helped  the  success  of  her  plan 
It  seems  she  has  a  predisposition  to  this  complaint;    and 

Vol.  A.  BALZAC-28 


650  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

though,  in  the  ordinary  course,  she  might  have  lived  a 
long  time,  a  few  days'  folly  has  made  the  case  desperate. 

I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  felt  on  hearing  this  sentence, 
based  on  such  clear  explanations.  You  know  that  I  have 
lived  in  Louise  as  much  as  in  my  own  life.  I  was  simply 
crushed,  and  could  not  stir  to  escort  to  the  door  these  har- 
bingers of  evil.  I  don't  know  how  long  I  remained  lost  in 
bitter  thoughts,  the  tears  running  down  my  cheeks,  when  I 
was  roused  from  my  stupor  by  the  words: 

"So  there  is  no  hope  for  me!"  in  a  clear,  angelic  voice. 

It  was  Louise,  with  her  hand  on  my  shoulder.  She 
made  me  get  up,  and  carried  me  off  to  her  small  drawing- 
room.  With  a  beseeching  glance,  she  went  on: 

"Stay  with  me  to  the  end;  I  won't  have  doleful  faces 
round  me.  Above  all,  I  must  keep  the  truth  from  him. 
I  know  that  I  have  strength  to  do  it.  I  am  full  of  youth 
and  spirit,  and  can  die  standing!  For  myself,  I  have  no 
regrets.  I  am  dying  as  I  wished  to  die,  still  young  and 
beautiful,  in  the  perfection  of  my  womanhood. 

"As  for  him,  I  can  see  very  well  now  that  I  should  have 
made  his  life  miserable.  Passion  has  me  in  its  grip,  like  a 
struggling  fawn,  impatient  of  the  toils.  My  groundless  jeal- 
ousy has  already  wounded  him  sorely.  When  the  day  came 
that  my  suspicions  met  only  indifference — which  in  the  long- 
run  is  the  rightful  meed  of  all  jealousy — well,  that  would 
have  been  my  death.  I  have  had  my  share  of  life.  There 
are  people  whose  names  on  the  muster-roll  of  the  world 
show  sixty  years  of  service,  and  yet  in  all  that  time  they 
have  not  had  two  years  of  real  life,  while  my  record  of 
thirty  is  doubled  by  the  intensity  of  my  love. 

"Thus  for  him,  as  well  as  for  me,  the  close  is  a  happy 
one.  But  between  us,  dear  Kene"e,  it  is  different.  You 
lose  a  loving  sister,  and  that  is  a  loss  which  nothing  can 
repair.  You  alone  here  have  the  right  to  mourn  my 
death. ' ' 

After  a  long  pause,  during  which  I  could  only  see  her 
through  a  mist  of  tears,  she  continued: 


LETTERS    OF    TWO    BRIDES  651 

"The  moral  of  my  death  is  a  cruel  one.  My  dear  doctor 
in  petticoats  was  right;  marriage  cannot  rest  upon  passion  as 
its  foundation,  nor  even  upon  love.  How  fine  and  noble  is 
your  life!  keeping  always  to  the  one  safe  road,  you  give 
your  husband  an  ever-growing  affection;  while  the  pas- 
sionate eagerness  with  which  I  threw  myself  into  wedded 
life  was  bound  in  nature  to  dimmish.  Twice  have  I  gone 
astray,  and  twice  has  Death  stretched  forth  his  bony  hand 
to  strike  my  happiness.  The  first  time,  he  robbed  me  of 
the  noblest  and  most  devoted  of  men;  now  it  is  my  turn, 
the  grinning  monster  tears  me  from  the  arms  of  my  poet- 
husband,  with  all  his  beauty  and  his  grace. 

"Yet  I  would  not  complain.  Have  I  not  known  in  turn 
two  men,  each  the  very  pattern  of  nobility — one  in  mind,  the 
other  in  outward  form?  In  Felipe,  the  soul  dominated  and 
transformed  the  body;  in  Gaston,  one  could  not  say  which 
was  supreme — heart,  mind,  or  grace  of  form.  I  die  adored 
— what  more  could  I  wish  for?  Time,  perhaps,  in  which 
to  draw  near  the  God  of  whom  I  may  have  too  little 
thought.  My  spirit  will  take  its  flight  toward  Him,  full  of 
love,  and  with  the  prayer  that  some  day,  in  the  world  above, 
He  will  unite  me  once  more  to  the  two  who  made  a  heaven 
of  my  life  below.  Without  them,  paradise  would  be  a  des- 
ert to  me. 

"To  others,  my  example  would  be  fatal,  for  mine  was 
no  common  lot.  To  meet  a  Felipe  or  a  Gaston  is  more 
than  mortals  can  expect,  and  therefore  the  doctrine  of 
society  in  regard  to  marriage  accords  with  the  natural 
law.  Woman  is  weak,  and  in  marrying  she  ought  to 
make  an  entire  sacrifice  of  her  will  to  the  man  who,  in 
return,  should  lay  his  selfishness  at  her  feet.  The  stir 
which  women  of  late  years  have  created  by  their  whining 
and  insubordination  is  ridiculous,  and  only  shows  how 
well  we  deserve  the  epithet  of  children,  bestowed  by 
philosophers  on  our  sex." 

She  continued  talking  thus  in  the  gentle  voice  you  know 
so  well,  uttering  the  gravest  truths  in  the  prettiest  man- 


652  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

ner,  until  Gaston  entered,  bringing  with  him  his  sister-in- 
law,  the  two  children,  and  the  English  nurse,  whom,  at 
Louise's  request,  he  had  been  to  fetch  from  Paris. 

"Here  are  the  pretty  instruments  of  my  torture,"  she 
said,  as  her  nephews  approached.  "Was  not  the  mistake 
excusable?  What  a  wonderful  likeness  to  their  uncle!" 

She  was  most  friendly  to  Mme.  Gaston  the  elder,  and 
begged  that  she  would  look  upon  the  chalet  as  her  home; 
in  short,  she  played  the  hostess  to  her  in  her  best  de 
ChauHeu  manner,  in  which  no  one  can  rival  her. 

I  wrote  at  once  to  the  Due  and  Duchesse  de  Chaiilieu, 
the  Due  de  Rhetore",  and  the  Due  de  Lenoncourt-Givry,  as 
well  as  to  Madeleine.  It  was  time.  Next  day,  Louise,  worn 
out  with  so  much  exertion,  was  unable  to  go  out;  indeed, 
she  only  got  up  for  dinner.  In  the  course  of  the  evening, 
Madeleine  de  Lenoncourt,  her  two  brothers,  and  her  mother 
arrived.  The  coolness  which  Louise's  second  marriage  had 
caused  between  herself  and  her  family  disappeared.  Every 
day  since  that  evening,  Louise's  father  and  both  her  brothers 
have  ridden  over  in  the  morning,  and  the  two  duchesses 
spend  all  their  evenings  at  the  chalet.  Death  unites  as  well 
as  separates;  it  silences  all  paltry  feeling. 

Louise  is  perfection  in  her  charm,  her  grace,  her  good 
sense,  her  wit,  and  her  tenderness.  She  has  retained  to  the 
last  that  perfect  tact  for  which  she  has  been  so  famous,  and 
she  lavishes  on  us  the  treasures  of  her  brilliant  mind,  which 
made  her  one  of  the  queens  of  Paris. 

"I  should  like  to  look  well  even  in  my  coffin,"  she  said 
with  her  matchless  smile,  as  she  lay  down  on  the  bed  where 
she  was  to  linger  for  a  fortnight. 

Her  room  has  nothing  of  the  sick-chamber  in  it;  medi- 
cines, ointments,  the  whole  apparatus  of  nursing,  is  carefully 
concealed. 

"Is  not  my  deathbed  pretty?"  she  said  to  the  Sevres 
priest  who  came  to  confess  her. 

We  gloated  over  her  like  misers.  All  this  anxiety,  and 
the  terrible  truths  which  dawned  on  him,  have  prepared 


LETTERS   OF   TWO   BRIDES  653 

Gaston  for  the  worst.  He  is  full  of  courage,  but  the  blow 
has  gone  .home.  It  would  not  surprise  me  to  see  him  follow 
his  wife  in  the  natural  course.  Yesterday,  as  we  were  walk- 
ing  round  the  lake,  he  said  to  me: 

"I  must  be  a  father  to  those  two  children, "  and  he  pointed 
to  his  sister-in-law,  who  was  taking  the  boys  for  a  walk. 
"But  though  I  shall  do  nothing  to  hasten  my  end,  I  want 
your  promise  that  you  will  be  a  second  mother  to  them,  and 
will  persuade  your  husband  to  accept  the  office  of  guardian, 
which  I  shall  depute  to  him  in  conjunction  with  my  sister- 
in-law.  ' ' 

He  said  this  quite  simply,  like  a  man  who  knows  he  is 
not  long  for  this  world.  He  has  smiles  on  his  face  to  meet 
Louise's,  and  it  is  only  I  whom  he  does  not  deceive.  He  is 
a  mate  for  her  in  courage. 

Louise  has  expressed  a  wish  to  see  her  godson,  but  I 
am  not  sorry  he  should  be  in  Provence;  she  might  want 
to  remember  him  generously,  and  I  should  be  in  a  great 
difficulty. 

Good-by,  my  love. 

August  25th  (her  birthday). 

YESTERDAY  evening  Louise  was  delirious  for  a  short 
time;  but  her  delirium  was  the  prettiest  babbling,  which 
shows  that  even  the  madness  of  gifted  people  is  not  that  of 
fools  or  nobodies o  In  a  mere  thread  of  a  voice  she  sang  some 
Italian  airs  from  "I  Puritani,"  "La  Somnambula, "  "Moi'se," 
while  we  stood  round  the  bed  in  silence.  Not  one  of  us,  not 
even  the  Due  de  Khe'tore',  had  dry  eyes,  so  clear  was  it  to  us 
all  that  her  soul  was  in  this  fashion  passing  from  us.  She 
could  no  longer  see  us !  Yet  she  was  there  still  in  the  charm 
of  the  faint  melody,  with  its  sweetness  not  of  this  earth. 

During  the  night  the  death  agony  began.  It  is  now  seven 
in  the  morning,  and  I  have  just  myself  raised  her  from  bed. 
Some  flicker  of  strength  revived;  she  wished  to  sit  by  her 
window,  and  asked  for  Gaston's  hand.  And  then,  my  love, 
the  sweetest  spirit  whom  we  shall  ever  see  on  this  earth 
departed,  leaving  us  the  empty  shell. 


654  BALZAC'S    WORKS 

The  last  sacrament  had  been  administered  the  evening 
before,  unknown  to  Gaston,  who  was  taking  a  snatch  of  sleep 
during  this  agonizing  ceremony;  and  after  she  was  moved  to 
the  window,  she  asked  me  to  read  her  the  "De  Profundis" 
in  French,  while  she  was  thus  face  to  face  with  the  lovely 
scene,  which  was  her  handiwork.  She  repeated  the  words 
after  me  to  herself,  and  pressed  the  hands  of  her  husband, 
who  knelt  on  the  other  side  of  the  chair. 

August  26th. 

MY  HEART  is  broken.  I  have  just  seen  her  in  her  wind- 
ing-sheet; her  face  is  quite  pale  now  with  purple  shadows. 
Oh!  I  want  my  children  I  my  children  1  Bring  me  my 
children ! 


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